Seeing Double
by house-of-insanity
Summary: House is challenged with the puzzling case of saving a set of twins, one of which is extremely sick and the other of which is extremely unhappy. Case style.
1. Two Peas In A Pod

**Title**: Seeing Double  
**Genre**: General  
**Rating**: T, for some language and allusions to situations more adult than childlike  
**Summary**: House is challenged with the puzzling case of saving a set of twins, one who is extremely sick and the other who is extremely unhappy.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own "House."

**Item #1**: Yes, my friends, I have returned! School's been insane, to say the least. So much to do, so little time. (It's my junior year. I've been trying to impress the colleges.) Now I'm happy to say that I'm sailing smooth, everything's under control, and the ole GPA is doing quite well. So…I'm celebrating by indulging in a little story for ya'all!  
**Item #2**: I learned a lot about what _not_ to do in a fic from my first story, "Father House," so I'm sincerely hoping this one will be better. I'm almost sure it is, but you, naturally, may be the judge of that.  
**Item #3**: I did my best to make the plot to this one unlike any other fic I've read, and hopefully the medical mystery is believable yet intriguing. I'm doing my homework – research and whatnot – and trying to portray everything accurately, but I'm no doctor. If I'm messing up really horribly, please let me know!  
**Item #4**: Be gentle while reviewing – as I am not a grouchy middle-aged doctor, I'm not sure I'll capture his POV exactly right. :)

ENJOY!

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Chapter One: 

Generally, entering PPTH is an unpleasant experience for me, to say the least. Little lovesick Dr. Cameron is constantly nipping at my heels (or really, any part of my body she can reach), my skepticism for the human race at large increases with every idiot patient – redundant, I know – I encounter, and shipping apparently enjoys tormenting me, considering the way they always seem to deliver Vicodin to the other side of the hospital. Honestly, is it any wonder I _tried_ to get stuck in traffic this morning?

I push the door of the main entrance open, my heart as heavy as my bad leg. It's only Tuesday. An involuntary glance at my watch reveals that I'm actually two minutes early. _Way to torture yourself_, I grumble inwardly as I wander towards the elevator.

Damn. Our resident Cruella Deville sees me, only, I notice with an admittedly perverse delight, she's not decked out in layers of fur. In fact, the crisp fabric of her blouse – blue: so cool and yet _extremely_ hot – dips so low I couldn't be considered a man if I didn't stare for at least five seconds. It's also impossible for me to do anything but appreciate the natural beauty, or booty, as the case may be, of her perfectly toned ass straining against the back of her skirt as she walks.

I don't mention this to her, though. Instead, I go into noble-protector mode as I watch a male nurse, a skater boy waiting with his mom for lab results, and even my constant comrade through lust and loss, Dr. Wilson, all gaze at her as she struts her stuff. I want to deck them all, because I'm the only one allowed to ogle Cuddy. What can I say? I'm a possessive bastard.

Although I suppose the idea that I own her is somewhat contrary to reality.

Her swagger comes to an abrupt halt scarcely a foot away from me. Even with four-inch heels on her feet, she's still got another four to go before she can look me straight in the eye. Nevertheless, I feel naughty, like a pre-teen boy caught with a Playboy magazine between the pages of his textbook. "Dr. House," she begins briskly.

I hold up a hand to stop her. "Not another word, young lady. You go right upstairs and put on some clothes before I spank you." I cackle inwardly, devilishly amused.

"PMSing again, _Mom_?" she asks. "Go to the clinic. Now."

"Of the two of us, I am the only one that even remotely resembles a doctor," I inform her. In perfect unison, both pairs of our eyes slide to my very classy t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. "As opposed to a call-girl," I add, admittedly as a bit of an afterthought. "Therefore, I'll be giving the orders."

"And of the two of us, I am the only one that can legally authorize your paychecks," she counters irritably. "_Go_."

I tap my cane petulantly. "I already did all my hours," I whine, deciding to let the getting-dressed thing go. For now.

"_Chase_ did all your hours," she reminds me. "You sat in your office playing your damn GameBoy."

"That was last week, when I bought Foreman off with some exquisite bling I picked out just for him." By this, I mean I paid him handsomely in packages of Starbursts, as they are his favorite candy. I can't even remember if bling is jewelry or a cell phone. "This week, while Chase covered me, I was giving Wilson a consult. 19-year-old female, a gymnast, very nimble. Turns out she fractured her precious little tailbone during practice. Tragic, isn't it?"

"So you spent an hour staring at the poor girl's ass," Cuddy translates.

I am amazed at my insensitivity. "Oh, how could I be so heartless? Don't worry, I'll make room in my terribly busy schedule just for you. What seems to be the problem? Chest pain, perhaps? I may need to make a more thorough examination." I make a show of peering down her shirt.

The subtle romance of the gesture is not lost on her. She looks both ways, then gives me the finger and hisses, "You make me sick."

"I'm not the one who puts more effort into thoroughly displaying my cleavage than making sure the drug counter has Vicodin in stock," I blurt before I can stop myself.

Cuddy glares at me. "You're a disgrace to the medical profession! If I knew what was good for me, I'd fire you."

"So either you _don't_ know what's good for you, or I must have some redeeming qualities about me." Her coral pink lips remain firmly shut. "Come on, I can keep a secret. Is it my ravishing good looks? My charming personality? Oh, I know: it's the _Beast_, isn't it?" When her eyes drop and her brows raise, I know she has the wrong idea. "My _motorcycle_, you naughty girl. Come on, which one is it? Or maybe it's all of the above…"

She blinks at me, and when she speaks, her voice is slow, precise, and gentle, as if I'm mentally challenged. I tolerate it because, hell, I kind of deserve it. Plus, believe it or not, I don't actually mind Cuddy that much. She's possibly one of the only women I've ever interacted with that possesses a fully functional brainstem. Not that I'd ever tell _her_ that. "I keep you around because you save people's lives," she enunciates deliberately. "Or at least you're capable of it. God knows, you'd be a lot more impressive if you'd just act like a normal doctor and not make so many waves with your shenanigans."

"My shenanigans are God's gift to this hospital," I say. "Without them, life would cease to exist as we know it. Wilson would run amok like an animal in heat, my team would amount to nothing but a trio of directionless youths, and patients would be kicking off right and left."

"You're right," Cuddy admits, finally seeing the light. "My life would be so empty without all the drama and the paperwork and those wonderful lawsuits. What was I thinking?

"Whatever it was, it couldn't have been as intelligent as what you're thinking now," I assure her.

She gives me a pained smile. "House."

"Yes, darling?"

The title jars her, just as I had surmised it would. _Gotcha_, I think smugly. I do so love this game. She recalls, with difficulty, what she was going to say. "Please take over Dr. Simpson's clinic hours. He called in sick."

"Newsflash: 'sick' means sitting at home in his underwear leaving suggestive comments on his mistress's MySpace," I tell her, because her naivety is so, so sad. "But tell me: just what do I get out of this?"

"_Please_?"

So far today, I've realized that I am a lewd creature with a vulgar tongue, but there's nothing wrong with going a little wild and being nice every so often. "Okay," I sigh, hoping I don't sound _too_ compassionate.

Instead of kissing my feet profusely like I deserve, she cries exasperatedly, "Finally!" As she turns away, I'm almost certain I hear her mutter something about me being an annoying, self-righteous prick.

"You're welcome," I call, then I set out on my journey to the clinic. I step in and am immediately immersed in a mad whirlwind of screaming toddlers, crumpled tissues, and outdated subscriptions to _Ladies' Home Journal_. Somehow I make it safely to the counter, where an RN hurriedly shoves a stack of patient folders my way. I pick up the only one that doesn't go flying to the floor and read. "Becca and Bella Donahue." In parentheses, their real names are listed: Rebecca and Isabelle. Oh boy. Cutesy names with matching nicknames like this tend to signify twins. Double the volume, double the whining, double the pain. I instinctively pop a Vicodin and hobble to exam room two.

I enter and realize just how wrong I was. These are not the loud and obnoxious three-year-olds with energy crammed into every corner of their little bodies I had been expecting. No, what I find is possibly even more sinister: teenagers. They're both sitting on the exam table, bearing the exact same posture, exact same movements, exact same face.

The one to my left is clearly the demon of the duo; I know with absolute certainty from the death glare she gives me. She's wearing quite a bit of black, lots of silver jewelry, and judging from the look on her face, I'm guessing she'd rather be off listening to death metal or smoking weed. I am surprised to see that even with a seemingly gothic disposition, she's left her naturally dirty blonde hair its natural shade and hasn't even gone so far as to put any unnecessary piercings or tattoos anywhere on her anatomy. As I study her from head to toe, I feel something clench around my heart. Could it be that I am _intimidated_?

Nah. Who am I kidding?

The one on the right is much more my speed. Blonde highlights, hoop earrings, light blue eye shadow crayoned onto her eyelids, and clothes so tight they put Cuddy in the race for Nun of the Year. This one is every man's dream to see double; she looks friendly enough, at least next to her sister. I'm not talking about doing anything felonious; I'm a professional, after all, and it would be extremely unseemly for me to engage in that kind of activity with a child. But I'm also human, and God (if there is a God) would be extremely insulted if I didn't gaze upon the splendor of his creation. Better stay on the good side of the man upstairs.

I approach them slowly, worried that if I say the wrong thing, something bad will happen. I'm not sure what sorts of inventive tortures they'll think of – tying me up and making me listen to gansta rap, perhaps, or maybe performing an extreme make-over – but I'm sure these two are capable of tormenting me greatly, whatever they do. I tentatively ask, "Are you Becca and Bella?"

"I'm Becca," says the prep proudly, her feet, adorned in pink flip-flops, swinging into motion as she speaks. "She's Bella."

"_Isabelle_," the scary one emphasizes, narrowing her eyes. "My name is Isabelle."

"Right," I say, making note of the detail – not that I truly care. "Well, I'm Dr. House. What can I do for you?"

Nothing. They stare at each other, but neither of them talks. I wonder if maybe this could be the issue. In my experience, teenage girls never shut up. I'm not exactly sure why, when one goes silent, it is a problem, but it certainly is unnatural.

"I have a patient going into surgery soon," I inform them. "I should try to be there." What I don't tell them is that this is taking place on _General Hospital_. "If we could hurry this up, I'd be much obliged."

Bella – I beg your pardon, _Isabelle_ – rolls her eyes. "Come on, Becca, just tell him."

"I don't want to," she complains, glancing at me nervously. I make sure she notices me fidgeting anxiously and checking the clock. "It's too embarrassing."

"He's a doctor," her sister points out. "There's nothing he hasn't heard before." I want to tell her how untrue this is, that I am dumbfounded every day with people and the problems they have with their bodies, but I have a feeling she'd probably go psycho on me for contradicting her.

Becca shakes her head. "I can't."

Isabelle turns away and mutters, "I can't believe I'm missing _General Hospital_ for this." The sentiment, identical to my own, strikes me as so funny I can't help but allow an appreciative snort to escape my lips. I can barely resist clamping my hand over my mouth as she centers her piercing gaze on me and holds it. "Am I funny to you?" she asks incredulously.

"Not at all," I tell her, doing my best to sound defiant and sarcastic, but it's getting harder and harder to be a jerk. "Maybe _you_ could tell me what seems to be the problem. I'll give her some meds, and then we can all go home."

"Becca missed a period," her sister reports in a bored voice. "She thinks she's pregnant."

I blink. That's _it_? I'm not an advocate of teenage pregnancy, or really, of any pregnancy at all, but there are far more humiliating problems than something so commonplace and ordinary as a baby. Still, I can't resist extracting every ounce of entertainment I can find in this. I put on my stern-doctor face and ask Becca, "Just how old are you?"

"I just turned fifteen," she says in a small voice.

_This_ surprises me. "How long ago is 'just turned'?"

"A week," she mumbles, "and two days."

"A week and three days for me," Isabelle adds, more social now that her sister is in the limelight. Poor kid. She probably doesn't get a lot of attention at home, not with this one for the parents to keep in line. "I came at 11:58 on May 27, and she came at 12:01 on May 28."

I ignore this interesting bit of information in the interest of sorting through my own thoughts. At fifteen, I don't think I knew what a girl _was_, let alone how to use one. How could this girl already be fornicating, let alone pregnant? "_Fifteen_?" I repeat. "What were you _thinking_?"

"You're so mean!" Becca cries, burying her face in her hands. "Why can't you just _help_ me?"

"I haven't even said anything yet!" I blurt, because either this little girl is very easily offended, or I am getting excessively nasty without even realizing it.

"_Yet_?" Isabelle puts her arm around her sister and tries to sooth her. "Relax, Becca. Everything's gonna be fine."

"Easy for you to say," she sniffs. "You're not the one who's pregnant." I could potentially point out that we still don't know that she's with child for a fact, but this is far too interesting. I decide to let it sit a little longer.

"There are things you can do," Isabelle tells her suggestively.

"Number one is to find the guy that did it," Becca replies.

This halts Isabelle's comforting act and my gagging episode simultaneously. "You don't know who the father is?" Isabelle asks, raising an eyebrow.

Becca considers how to phrase what she's going to say next. "I've narrowed it down to three guys," she confides finally.

"_Three_?" we chorus.

"How many people have you ever…" I grope through the recesses of my mind for the polite, medical term. "…Had intercourse with?"

She starts ticking them off on her fingers, swiping at her tears as she counts. "Matt, Josh, other Josh, and Darin," she says. "Four. Wait…are we counting actual times or is there…lesser fooling around involved?"

I close my eyes wearily. "Include the fooling around," I tell her, wondering how this could possibly get any worse.

Becca shuts her eyes and considers for a moment. "Seven," she announces hesitantly.

Isabelle looks ready to cry. I wonder if her parents turn a blind eye to what their daughters do, trusting that they'll keep themselves in line, or at least each other. "Becca, what are you _doing_?" she asks after a moment. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Becca begins to wail; I begin to wonder if it would be rude to excuse myself for a potty break and just never come back. I'm not who they need; Planned Parenthood and family counseling are more in line with their problems.

"I don't know," she sobs. "I just wanted to feel loved."

_Welcome to hell_, I salute myself sadly, glancing longingly at the door.

"They're all so cool and awesome and hot, and I always think they really like me, and…and…" Becca can't explain anymore; she's crying too hard.

Isabelle looks at me for aid. "Now what?" she asks helplessly.

I want to have all the answers, but this is a problem I can't even begin to touch. It freezes me up, like a deer caught in headlights. I begin to wish Cameron was here; she loves this kind of emotional, heart-wrenching drama. "It's a dilemma," I assess bravely, trying to figure this out.

"What am I going to _do_?" Becca bawls, quite possibly breaking the sound barrier. "I can't –" She breaks off suddenly, grabs her throat, and gasps for air. _Can't breath_, she mouths, already beginning to turn blue.

_Now_ this_ is more like it_, I think, somewhat ashamed of my attitude but not having any time to waste. I move from the chair I had been sitting in across the room in a heartbeat.

"What's going on?" Isabelle asks, moving out of my way. Her voice is calm. Too calm. She'll go into hysterics if I don't get her out of here now.

"Go get a nurse!" I command her, leaving no room for argument. "Now!" I watch her flee in my peripheral vision as I lean Becca back in order to assess the situation. Tears stream from her eyes as she silently beseeches me for help. I hear myself muttering nonsensical assurances as I fumble with my stethoscope.

_To hell with the damn thing_, I think as I drop it mere inches away from me. _It's obvious she's not breathing normally_. I begin CPR with a vengeance, wondering how it is possible that only seconds before, I was secretly pondering how someone with no regard to the fragility of their life deserved to live. Now, I pray she'll be alright. Maybe this, whatever it is, whatever it means, will push her to consider how quickly all her fun and games can end.

_Breathe_, I think. _Breathe, please…_

Isabelle and the RN from the counter rush into the room.

"What did you do?" the nurse asks me as she studies Becca, confounded.

"He didn't do anything," Isabelle whispers. I can barely hear her, for all the noise coming from the clinic. People are beginning to gather around the door, looking in at the girl who can't breathe.

"Close that door!" I bellow between gulps of air. She does it silently, never taking her eyes off of her sister.

Rebecca Donahue. I wonder as I work feverishly to breath life back into her lungs if this name will ever see a high school diploma, a marriage certificate, a birth certificate, this time as a mother. I wonder if her death certificate is coming sooner than the rest.

* * *

Good? Bad? Hideous? Marvelous? Somewhere in between? 

If you click that little purple box labeled "Go" in the left-hand corner of your screen, something awesome will happen. You get to review. :) Please?


	2. The Dysfunctional Donahues

Thanks for all the reviews, you guys! They made my day!

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Chapter Two:

An hour later, I am safe in the Department of Diagnostics, briefing my beloved medical team on the situation. The twins are in the ICU with their mother, waiting for answers, surviving solely on hope. "15-year-old female comes in with the P-word on her mind –" I begin.

"What's the P-word?" Cameron asks. "Pancreatic cancer?"

"Penicillin?" Foreman guesses.

"Parainfluenza virus?" Chase contributes.

I am sorely disappointed. "That's all you can come up with? I don't think she even knows she has a pancreas. Try again."

"Paralysis?"

"Polycystic ovary?"

"Photophobia?"

"_Pregnancy_," I tell them irritably. "Duh."

Chase and Foreman are appropriately embarrassed, but Cameron is having none of it. She looks confused, unable to decide whether she should gasp in horror at Becca's predicament or scold me for implying that teenage girls get pregnant all the time…even though they do. I open my mouth to speak, but I am interrupted by Cameron's abnormally loud inhale. "Oh no," she says. "That's awful."

"Don't worry about it," I instruct her firmly. "First, let's focus on making sure she can breathe." They stare at me disbelievingly. "She, more or less, had a heart attack right there in front of me," I mutter, knowing what's coming.

Foreman sighs exasperatedly. "You just never know when to shut up, do you? What did you do to her?"

After fielding this question from three nurses, Cuddy, and Mrs. Donahue, I am just slightly bored of justifying myself. "I yelled at her," I say sarcastically. "Then I smacked her around with my cane a couple times and threw her out. What do you expect?" They shake their heads. "What did you want me to do, tell her men are pigs and help her surf eBay for baby clothes?"

Cameron makes the switch from sympathy to righteous indignation in the wake of Foreman's venture. "You don't reproach a teenage girl for getting pregnant," she tells me.

"Of course not," I agree mockingly. "You're supposed to give them a medal and tell them what good little girls they are."

"You don't know the whole story," she insists. "Anything could have happened. She probably thought she was in love, and they'd be together forever, and –"

"Oh, so I suppose the fact that she's slept with four guys in approximately six months proves nothing to you."

Chase raises an eyebrow. "That's impressive," he comments dryly, then hurriedly adds, "the fact that you took a patient history, I mean."

"It's hard not to when they start rambling about their sex life like there's nothing better to talk about," I reply, mentally wincing at the memory. "Speaking of which, I'm so proud of you and Cameron for -"

"What else happened?" Foreman interrupts, ever the peacemaker. Cameron shoots him an appreciative smile; Chase bounces up and down on his heels, thankful for dodging the bullet.

I could continue anyway, but I haven't got the energy. "In the middle of her high school mating saga, she just…stopped breathing."

"Far out," says a voice behind me. Dr. Wilson has come to join the party. "You have that effect, don't you?"

"I'm a hottie," I reply modestly. "I can't help it."

"I was going for the fact that you scare the hell out of people, but whatever helps you sleep at night…" He helps himself to some coffee, and I notice he takes _my_ favorite fire-engine red mug. I wonder how I came to be friends with such a selfish, callous jerk.

I turn to the doctors that are actually supposed to be here and continue. "CPR got her breathing again. She's in the ICU with her sister and mom, waiting breathlessly, in the most literal sense, for our magic healing touch." I stare at them intently, holding the gaze for a long moment. "Alright, impress me. What's wrong with her?"

They all just look at me as if it's _my_ job to answer the question. "Is she heavy?" Chase finally asks, a query, _not_ the genius conclusion I was hoping for.

Cameron rolls her eyes. _Of _course _that's the first thing he'd assume_, I can hear her thinking.

"She makes Karen Carpenter look like Kristie Allie," I say. "Of course, we don't know if she's going to have a baby yet, either. Give her a few months and her belly button could dip as low as the Grand Canyon."

"If she's pregnant, that could mean a whole host of complications," Foreman observes, blatantly ignoring my artful simile.

"If she's not…who knows?" Chase ponders aloud.

"That's what I love about you, Chase," I tell him. "You're so articulate, so well-read and insightful. 'Who knows?' Breathtaking."

"I'm going to run some tests," Cameron says, glaring at me. She gathers up her paperwork and leaves.

"I'm…going with her," Chase tells us, starting after her.

"This is a man's world anyway," I call as I sit down with Wilson and Foreman. "So, you guys. What sort of manly, masculine, man-like activity should we do now that we've weeded out the girls?"

Foreman chuckles humorlessly. "How about if we save this girl's life?" he asks, standing up. "That's pretty manly."

"Noble, yes. Heroic, yes. But the real men are too busy drinking coffee and gossiping for that stuff." I turn to Wilson. "Did you _see_ that shirt on Cuddy today?"

Normally, Jimmy's not one to talk about the boss behind her back, but the shirt was extraordinary enough to even start his tongue wagging. "Did I _ever_."

"How many square inches of cloth do you think went into that rag?"

"I don't care how small the numbers are; it was exquisite."

"There wasn't enough fabric there to cover a Chihuahua."

"You two are disgusting," Foreman tells us, pausing at the door. "What would Cuddy say if she were standing here listening to you?"

"Probably the exact same thing you did," I tell him, "considering that it was about her sentiment when I told her this myself."

"You have all the fun," Jimmy whines. "If I said that to her, do you realize how fast I'd be out of here?"

"Light speed," I concur. "Maybe faster."

"Will you teach me the ways? I wish _I_ could talk about people behind their backs in front of them." He pauses, wondering if he's even made any sense. "It's a gift, you know, insulting people the way you do. Is it some sort of innate ability, or did you learn it over time?"

"Please," I scoff. "You couldn't learn to be like me if I wrote a how-to book for you. I'm far too advanced for you to catch up to."

"God, you are so egotistical," Jimmy mutters.

"Most people call me House."

"Good-_bye_," Foreman says in his eagerness to be loved.

I glance at him. "Oh, you're still here?"

He leaves, exasperated. As soon as he is gone, I take _my_ favorite fire-engine red mug from Jimmy's side of the table and dump three packets of Splenda into it. He stares at me in disbelief. "I guess you missed a little time in pre-school," he comments wistfully, "especially the part where they taught you to share."

"This is _my_ mug," I remind him before taking a long, satisfying chug of coffee. "I have every right to it, and _you_ missed the part of church –"

"Synagogue. I'm Jewish."

"Yeah, that," I say, "where you learned that you shouldn't steal."

"To be honest, I haven't been since I was fourteen anyway."

"Therefore, I skipped out on school. You skipped out on God. Which one of us do you think is going to hell the next time the Alpha and the Omega gets in a mood?"

He searches his mind for the commandment I have most frequently broken. "You lie a lot," he accuses lamely.

"You commit adultery. _While_ you're ignoring the Sabbath. I think that counts as a double sin."

"You worship graven images."

"Of what?"

"I don't know…Do monster trucks count?"

"You said God a couple minutes ago, _not_ in the context of a prayer."

"You called _yourself_ God!"

"I _am _God."

"You don't have a big enough t.v. to be God."

"What does my t.v. have to do with this?"

"God has to have a big screen t.v. What do you think he does when he's bored?"

"God doesn't need a t.v. He gets enough fun out of watching all the stupid people in the world."

"Then he probably gets a kick out of you."

"Maybe you didn't hear me the first time. I _am_ God, and _you_ just happen to be my favorite. Not everybody has such a comical history of marital difficulties as you do."

"The comical part is a matter of opinion," Jimmy observes dryly. "I don't find it very funny. Neither does Julie."

"Just how is she, anyway? Does her mouth still run like it's the Energizer Bunny?"

"Well, believe it or not, she's thrilled," he says. "She can't get enough of this divorce stuff. When I moved out, she actually kissed me good-bye. I don't think she's gotten that close to me since the day we got married."

"I had no idea things were going so well for the two of you."

He buries his face in his hands, suddenly appearing ten years older. I have a sneaking suspicion that bringing this up wasn't the best idea. "Back to square zero," he grumbles. "I'm a failure."

"You'll find someone," I say awkwardly. I'm not much for this encouragement, being-a-friend stuff. "Women love you."

"No, they don't," he replies. "Everyone knows I'm a relationship disaster. When they find out I'm single again, they'll avoid me like the plague."

"You have money, and you're not even that bad-looking," I tell him. "Somewhere in the world, there's got to be someone who hasn't heard about all your other faults from those three nightmares you called your wives."

"I don't know. I think Julie's looking into making 'Do Not Date' posters with my picture on them."

"There's always illiteracy," I remind him. "Find a woman who can't read the damn things. That way she can't even hack into your emails or find phone numbers in your pockets when she does the laundry. You could cheat as much as you want and she'd never know."

He laughs humorlessly. "Perfect. I can only make a marriage work if I marry a woman too dumb to keep track of me. Have you ever considered that maybe lying isn't the best way to nurture a relationship?"

"As I've always said, the most successful marriages are based on lies."

Cameron enters, looking frazzled. "We're running a pregnancy test right now," she reports. "I see what you mean, though, about her…umm…promiscuity. I thought Chase was going to hurl when we took the complete medical history, not to mention her poor mom. The other sister had to take her to the cafeteria and calm her down so we could finish. And," she adds accusingly, "you didn't mention she had a twin."

"I didn't think it was relevant."

"Everything is relevant when teenage girls start having heart attacks for no reason," she informs me.

"The other one is perfectly fine," I remind her. "Other than the fact that she's emo, I mean."

"She's not emo," Cameron says. "She's a depressed artist, if I'm not mistaken." She gazes at me curiously. "It's been a long time since you were in high school, hasn't it?"

Jimmy snorts loudly.

"See if I ever listen to you ramble about your crappy marriage again," I tell him irritably, rising from my seat. "I feel like some coffee."

"There's coffee here," they remind me in unison.

"I feel like intelligent conversation, then. And don't tell me I can find that in this room." I head off for the cafeteria, smirking to myself. _Avoid you like the plague, huh?_ I think, glancing back as Cameron sits down beside him and begins to make conversation. _In a week or two, you'll be _wishing _you were the plague so she'd leave you alone. _

I ride down the elevator and follow the aroma of overcooked veggies and leather-tough slabs of steak to the cafeteria. As I enter the Petri dish of staff members on break and worried family members pretending they're anything but that, I wonder why I didn't just keep walking straight out the door and go home. I've saved someone's life today; my work here is done.

Because I have nothing better to do and it's almost lunch time anyway, I get into the food line. I wave past the lady serving the limp green leaves supposedly abundant in Vitamin K and the rock-hard squares of meatloaf and instead go straight to the dessert. _Chocolate cake or apple pie?_ I debate internally. Finally, I choose the pie, because I'm behind on my fruit intake for the day.

Isabelle steps in line behind me. She glares at me. "You took the last piece of pie," she says accusingly.

_It's a sign from God,_ I think. _He wants me to have the cake. _I wordlessly set the pie on her tray and reach for the cake. She blinks at me, surprised. "I can be generous, sometimes," I say. "When I'm not too busy practicing the other fruits of the spirit, that is."

She nods, humoring me. "Right…"

"In my spare time, though, when I'm not doing good deeds, I practice medicine." I approach the cash register and pull out my wallet. It's empty. Perfect. "I'll pay you tomorrow," I suggest, picking up my tray and getting ready to go slinking off to the most inconspicuous corner of the cafeteria.

"You've exceeded your borrowing limit, Dr. House," says Laverne Lurch, a whale of a woman that recently quit her job as a lunch monitor at the local middle school in favor of her new position here at PPTH. It has been rumored that she was driven out of school by a pack of sixth graders that taunted her mercilessly, saying that she was so fat she made Free Willy look like a tic-tac. "Until you give us the other fifty dollars you owe, no more borrowing."

I'm barely able to keep my mouth from falling open. Is she _denying_ me my lunch? "Try squeezing money out of a dead man," I grumble, begrudgingly turning over my cake. "You starve me, and you'll never see that money."

"Hold on," Isabelle sighs, pulling a wallet with a skull on it out of her similarly patterned purse. "I'll buy it." I am mesmerized as she bequeaths a whole dollar to Laverne just so I can have my cake, and then another for her pie. Similarly, I can almost see Laverne's arteries finally squeezing shut in pure amazement after all these years of cholesterol build-up. "What?" she asks defensively as she grabs a couple napkins. "I can be generous, too, when I'm not busy cheerleading and organizing prom." She picks up her tray and begins to wade through the tables.

I follow her, because while she's probably not the most pleasant person in the room, she is certainly one of the most interesting. "This may surprise you, but you don't seem like the student-government, cheerleader type," I tell her.

If she's angry at me for following her, she's putting up a tolerant front. "Then I guess we're both pretending to be something we're not," she says as she sits down at her table. "He took the last piece of cake, so I got you some apple pie," she informs her mother, motioning at me.

Mrs. Donahue sighs and gives me a scornful look, but takes a fork and starts cutting into the pie.

Isabelle glances at me, daring me to say something. I don't. Instead, I sit down and start eating, making up my mind that I don't care about this little game of defiance she's playing with her mother. Let them make each other miserable.

"Do you know what's wrong with Becca yet?" Mrs. Donahue asks me, willing herself not to lunge for the cake.

"No idea," I report, my mouth full. "My staff is running tests on her as we speak."

"Shouldn't you be with them?"

"Shouldn't _you_ be with _her_?" I ask in a measured tone. She blinks guiltily. "No one can do their job 24/7. That includes you and me."

Isabelle turns to her mother. "Where's Dad?"

"He's coming," Mrs. Donahue tells her. "He'll be here soon."

"How soon?"

She shrugs. "Five minutes."

Isabelle stands up. "I'm going to go visit Becca," she says, too casually for me to believe this is a spontaneous decision.

"Tell her that Dad's coming," she calls after her.

I wait until she is gone. "They must have such a loving relationship," I comment.

Mrs. Donahue scoffs. "Please," she says. "Isabelle and her father can't stand each other. I think if one got run over by a bus, the other wouldn't even care. Can't say that I blame her, though. He's…difficult."

"I was actually talking about Isabelle and Rebecca," I say.

"Oh." She blushes. "They do have a good relationship. They're always looking out for each other. Or trying to, anyway. Isabelle's gotten so out of hand…"

"That depressed artist complex can do that to a kid." I hope I've gotten her high school stereotype right this time.

"She's so _angry_. She's always making snide comments and writing poetry fraught with teenage angst, and I'm almost sure she smokes…" Mrs. Donahue breaks off and swipes furiously at her eyes. "I keep hoping that someday her sister will rub off on her. Becca's such a good girl, such a _nice_ girl."

"From what I know of her, she's very…" I grope for the right word. "…Affectionate."

"She's a cheerleader, and she writes for the school paper, and she's in all the service clubs and has a 4.0," she gushes. "I'm so proud of her. She's going to make something of herself, you know?"

_Someone's in serious denial,_ I think, wondering if Cameron avoided mentioning to her that not only is her daughter concerned that she might be pregnant, but we think she may be right. "Yes, well, if only Isabelle could be that way."

"It's not that she's a bad kid," she explains hurriedly. "She gets reasonable grades, and has a job, and has her reading and writing and all, but she's so insolent. I don't know how she manages to keep any friends."

"It's a mystery," I concede, wondering what kind of mother can say this about her own child with such ease.

Mrs. Donahue looks like she's about to go on, but she sees something behind me and her lips curve slightly upward. "Finally," she breathes in relief. "Where have you been?"

"Some of us work for a living." A man, presumably Mr. Donahue, sits down beside me and continues gruffly. "How is she?"

"She's stable," I reply, even though the question wasn't directed at me. "Her heart is functioning at the moment, she's awake and alert, and we're running tests right now."

"Who is this?" he asks. I can tell, in the few words he's spoken, that I'm not going to like him. He's rude, insensitive, acerbic. All of those things that I'm just not.

"This is Dr. House," she says. "He's the attending physician."

He watches as I shovel the last bite of chocolate cake into my mouth and dab at my face with a napkin. "Are you sure?" he asks carefully, no doubt noticing my lack of lab coat.

"I'm undercover," I admit. "People aren't supposed to know I'm a doctor. Makes me more susceptible to lawsuits. Insurance thing." Before he can reply, I stand up. "I should go see how the tests are going," I say. By this, I mean go hide in the clinic and play my Game Boy.

"You'll let us know what the results are, right?" Mrs. Donahue asks anxiously.

"It depends," I reply coolly. "The results I'm expecting are not the ones you'll want to hear." We lock gazes for a moment, and when I see that realization has come over her, I walk away. I see she has fallen into the trap of believing that she can tell doctors anything she wants and expect us to remain objective and neutral. We don't. All doctors have opinions about their patients. It's just hard to find one that will be honest about them.

* * *

Whew! Thanks for giving that long thing a read. May I make a last humble request before you go on your merry way?

Please review.


	3. Playing The Hand

Hey, long time no update!

Thank you, as always, for the reviews; they truly do help. Love and hugs, ya'all!

I know it's been a while. I spent a week trying to come up with where to go from where I left off in Chapter Two, couldn't, and then went back and added a whole bunch of crap to the end. (And then I went absolutely insane and wrote three more chapter at the speed of light. They're kind of bad, so I'm waiting to post them until I can fix them. Makes sense, right?) But anyway, I would suggest that maybe you go back to Chapter Two and read from House and Cameron's last conversation. Might make this one a little easier to figure out. :)

* * *

Chapter Three: 

Instead of heading toward the clinic, I find myself moving in the direction of the courtyard. I need fresh air in a bad way. I step outside and listen to the sounds of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Really, this is just chaos too large for the walls of the hospital to contain; the staff is still sitting around waiting for someone to die, and the families are still pacing anxiously waiting for a miracle.

I am surprised to see that Isabelle is part of this mix. She doesn't fall into either category, though; instead, she's sitting at a table under a tree talking on a cell phone.

"My sister's in the hospital," she informs whomever she's talking to. The tone of her voice suggests that she's talking about trivialities such as the weather; this is _not_ the panic-stricken sister I saw in the clinic only a few hours ago. "They don't know what's wrong with her yet." She shrugs nonchalantly as if the person on the other end can see her. "We came in to make sure she wasn't pregnant –" She breaks off, listening. "I know. What can I say, she's a slut. So anyway, we were just sitting there and this doctor was checking her out…No, literally, _checking her out_…No, I'm not kidding! And meanwhile, Becca's going on about how she was in love with that jerk, Darin, and all this kind of stuff, and then she just stops breathing." A scream audible enough for me to hear it twenty feet away bursts from the cell phone, but Isabelle doesn't even flinch. "It was pretty weird, but the doctor did CPR and now she's fine. My parents are freaking out, like she's dying or something. You know they wouldn't even be here if it was me. Then again, _I_ wouldn't ever be in the same situation Becca's in…" She pauses for a moment, then sees me. She frowns. "I'll call you back later. People are eavesdropping on me." She hangs up and glares at me. "Do you listen to everybody's phone conversations, or am I just special?"

"It's hard not to when you're slurring my good name," I say, sitting down. "I was _not_ 'checking her out.' She's a minor, and I kind of like being in relationships that _won't_ get me arrested." _Probably why I'm not in one at the moment_, I muse silently.

"It's okay, you know," she assures me. "You're a doctor; it's your job. And she's kind of pretty, if you like that empty look in her eyes and her idiotic disposition."

"You really love her, don't you? The way you talk about her is so affectionate."

Isabelle rolls her eyes. "Please. There are days I wish I'd never see her again."

"Then don't look in the mirror."

She looks surprised for a moment, then glances at me and laughs shortly. "_Ha_. Aren't you a barrel of laughs?"

"I think you've fooled everyone else, but you can't pull the wool over my eyes. I see all, I know all. Kind of like God, except without the unconditional love part. I saw the expression on your face when she stopped breathing. You were scared. And why would you be scared if you weren't afraid of losing her?"

"Do you believe in ghosts, House?" She catches me by surprise, both with the question and the way she refers to me. "I do. And she's already around enough of the time. I don't need her haunting me 24/7, day in and day out, for the rest of my life. As it is, I'm already stuck with her until I'm 18."

"She's not _that_ bad," I lie. "She's a hell of a lot more sociable than you are."

"Can't you get in trouble for saying that?" she wants to know. The look on my face must be as blank as my mind. "The h-e-double-hockey-sticks thing, I mean."

"Most doctors have potty mouths," I inform her. "And don't try to change the subject."

"And here I thought you people must be at the height of morality."

"You're the last person I would have expected to be so naïve." I lean in close. "What you need to hear is this: stop being so catty. It would be one thing if it were effortless, but it's not. You work hard to be so standoffish, and no one can respect you if you make yourself miserable. Trust me, it's much more daring to stick up for your sister in your little group of friends than it is for you to hurt your family by pretending you don't care."

"There's not a doubt in my mind that I love her. But I _am_ ashamed of her." She holds up her hands helplessly, balancing the weight of the two sentiments. "She's one of those people you can talk to for five minutes and feel like you've known her your whole life. The problem is, she's also one of those people that you immediately know doesn't give a damn about values and morals. Who wants to spend a lifetime acquainted with someone like that?"

"Well, I always say, 'Clean your finger before you point at my spots.'"

She squints at me. "I'm pretty sure Benjamin Franklin was the one to coin that phrase."

"He learned everything he knew from me." My beeper goes off; Cameron is after me again. "I'd love to stay, but I have to run. Dr. Cameron needs me."

"Yeah, well, I'll sure miss all your wonderful advice," Isabelle mutters, and I distinctly hear her add something under her breath about me being a hypocrite. I choose to ignore it.

I take the elevator up to the ICU, where Cameron is. She's standing outside of Becca's room, looking in on her only about every fifth of a second. I stiffen immediately; Cameron, while overly compassionate and far too connected to her patients, has never been a watchdog. Something very bad is going on.

"What's up?" I ask, staring in at Becca. This is one of those times I'm really wishing I had x-ray vision, and it's even for a valid reason: there are three nurses standing around her, reading her monitors, checking her temperature, fluffing the pillow under her head. I can't see what's going on at all.

"She passed out a couple minutes ago," she explains, her eyes dark. "Barely any warning at all – she was watching t.v., and then all of a sudden she got nauseous and everything went black."

"But it wasn't another heart attack," I say, a statement, not a question.

"Just a fainting spell," she confirms. "But she was out cold."

I feel my eyebrows knit. "Interesting," I say.

"Scary," Cameron corrects me. "House, she's _fifteen._ She might be _pregnant. _She's having _heart attacks_ and _fainting spells._ None of this is normal."

I put my hand to my heart. "Get out! And I thought it was just another day in the life of Rebecca Marie Donahue."

"What do you think it is?" she wants to know.

I wag my finger at her. "Cheater," I accuse. "Stop trying to copy me."

"I show you mine, you show me yours?" she tries.

"The time will come for that," I promise. "Until then, play your hand close to your heart."

She sighs. "This isn't a game, House. This is someone's life. Shouldn't we be working together to save it?"

"'Working together,'" I muse. "That would be great…if this were an elementary school. We're in a hospital, Cameron. We lie, we cheat, and we keep secrets. It adds some color to these white-washed walls we call home."

"And it _takes_ color from your patients' faces if you're not careful," she reminds me. "Holding back theories that could save someone's life is the surest way to hurt them in the long run."

"And here you guys are always telling me to wait until we're _sure_. No wonder I toss and turn at night, wondering what to do."

An RN steps out of the room to talk to us. Well, she talks to Cameron, anyway; she's avoiding eye contact with me, an odd thing to do, considering what an amiable, gentle fellow I am. "She's alright. It could have been dehydration. We gave her some water, and she seems fine now."

"Thanks," Cameron says absentmindedly, stepping into the room. "Becca, how are you feeling?"

"Better," she says. "Have my test results come?"

"Not yet," Cameron replies apologetically. "When we get them, you'll be the first to know. Anything you need?"

"I'd like to see my sister," she says. "Where is she? Is she okay?"

Cameron looks at me expectantly. "She's barely keeping it together," I fib out of a pitiful attempt at compassion. "She's downstairs with your mom, worried sick about you."

"Awww, that's so sad!" Becca says, but she's grinning happily. It must be nice, knowing people care enough about you to stay as far away from you as they can. "Can you ask them to come up to see me?"

What do I look like, her butler? "Oui, mademoiselle," I say a bit too sweetly, ducking out of the room in the direction of the safety of my office. I can hear her giggling a mile away; I should know better than to waste even the crudest sarcasm on people like her.

I lose myself in the world of Game Boy and all concept of time escapes me.

* * *

The next time I glance at the clock, it's half past three in the afternoon. _Goodie_, I think. _Potty break time._ I rise from my chair just as Chase comes into the room. 

"I was just leaving," I inform him.

"We've got test results," he replies.

I wait a moment. "Well?" I say when he doesn't recite them to me.

"She's not pregnant," he says.

I purse my lips together. Diagnostically, it would be much better for us if the results had been positive, but I suppose, in this business of saving lives, that one can only hope to keep as many people out of harm's way as we can. That includes innocent fetuses, even if someday they grow up to be annoying, smelly people.

"I see," I say slowly.

He studies me quizzically. "You were counting on that, weren't you?"

"I was," I admit. "We could have diagnosed her with some obscure pregnancy condition, gave her a few pills, maybe done a little minor surgery, and sent her home. Her parents would be sufficiently humbled, and the joy of another tiny little life would be due to enter the world in a matter of months. What would be better than that?"

"Oh, I don't know, the fact that she can stay in school and make something of herself," he says.

"Yeah, well, if we don't find what's wrong with her soon, the only way she's going back to school is if we wheel a gurney laden with her dead and rotting carcass to her classes," I say.

"I'm sure the school would appreciate _that_."

"Considering the evidence that her brain function is next to nothing anyway, they'll hardly notice," I reply.

"What's our next move?" Chase asks, crossing his arms impatiently.

"Get everyone in my office by four," I instruct him. "It's time to put the cards on the table and see who has the winning hand."

* * *

And that, my friends, is Chapter Three. It was...short. For me, anyway. 

But tell me what you thought, because I'd love to know.

And, on an unrelated note, I took a trip down Memory Lane and re-read my very first fan-fic story ever...It was a very humbling experience, to say the least. I'm getting better, right? I hope... :)

Chapter Four should be up soon.


	4. The MRI

Thank you times a million for the splendid reviews!

Just FYI:  
**Item 1**: I'm not a doctor, therefore, if I'm making huge mistakes in this chapter with the technical stuff, _please_ don't use excessive amounts of punctuation, lots of big letters, and curse words. If I've made mistakes (which I probably have), be gentle. :) And any issues with the medical facts in this story are, of course, the results of my poor interpretation of my mom's medical books.  
**Item 2**: I'm not a cheerleader, either, as I'm sure you'll come to find once you get far enough into this chapter. I don't mean to offend anyone that is one, because there are lots of cheerleaders that are nothing like the stereotype in which I've portrayed them...I'm not sure where they are, exactly, but I know there must be some. :)

And, in case you didn't remember, I don't own House. Are you shocked? I know I was...

But enough from me.

* * *

Chapter Four: 

At ten past four, my medical team is assembled in the Department of Diagnostic Medicine's lounge. They line the table like fine china, just waiting for their opportunity to shine. I try not to let on that I think this, but I'm actually quite proud of them. Even if one is overly stubborn, one is a whiny snitch, and one is recovering from a devastating infatuation with me, they're all good at what they do and getting better every day. Of course, they have me to thank.

I drum my fingers on the table to build the suspense, just for kicks. Then, "Cameron."

She snaps to attention. "Yes?"

"You have the best hand-writing out of all of us," I admit. "Since we shouldn't be wasting time deciphering what we write down, I suggest _you_ take notes on the white board." She stands up and walks silently to the board, glancing at the markers. "Be sure to use a pretty color," I remind her anxiously. She chooses blue.

_Becca Donahue_, she scrawls in big bubbly letters. "Now what?"

"Oh, that's right, I forgot," I say. "You've only been doing this for a few years; of _course_ you can't remember that we state what we know first."

She glares at me, then starts scribbling furiously onto the white board.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I interrupt. "Slow down. Maybe one of us has a suggestion."

"We don't know much," she says.

Chase, Foreman and I all start talking instantly.

"She's fifteen…"

"Dirty blonde…"

"105 pounds…"

"Five foot four…"

"Sleeps around…"

"Has a twin…"

"Cheerleads…"

"Has the I.Q. of a fruit fly…"

"Loves the show 'Survivor'…"

Cameron stopped writing around the mention of her height. "Something that might actually help us diagnose her," she all but growls. "We have next to nothing there."

I shrug. "We know she's had one heart attack and one fainting spell since she came here."

"We also know that she might be –" Foreman begins.

"She's not," Chase interrupts. "The test came back negative."

"What about her medical history? Has she had any of these fainting spells before?" I ask.

"No," Cameron says.

"Any trouble breathing? Conditions like asthma?"

"Nothing like that." Cameron begins to write this down.

I stand up and walk to the white board. Cameron bequeaths the marker without being asked, but whines, "I thought _I_ was writing."

"This must be what it feels like to teach a teenager to drive," I comment. "You think they're going to floor the accelerator, but once they get out there, they drive slower than Grandma leaving church on Sunday. I wanted _readable_ handwriting, not calligraphy." I finish the word she'd started and try to convince myself it's comprehensible. "Let's narrow this down. What kind of condition could it be?"

"STDs," Cameron chimes in, recovering quickly.

I write it down. "What else?"

"I doubt it's bacterial," Chase comments.

I jot this down on the no-side with a line through it.

"It could be a clot," Foreman contributes helpfully.

This goes down on the board as well.

"It's probably not genetic," Cameron says.

"Very good," I reply. "If it were genetic, Isabelle would probably have it too." I record this. "Come on, what else? Anything, give me the first word that comes to mind."

"Put 'fungal' on the no-side," Chase says.

"What a brain," I mutter. "I wish I had gone to _his_ medical school. I want to be that smart."

"It could be an allergy of some sort," Foreman adds, but he sounds doubtful.

I feel my face scrunch up, the unlikely suggestion flailing helplessly in my mind as it attacks it with questions. "If it were an allergy, she would have to have already been exposed to it before coming here. Her body couldn't react like that without knowing what it was reacting to."

"Allergies develop over time after constant exposure, even when the patient interacts with the allergen regularly," Cameron says. "It's unlikely, but possible."

"I don't like it," I protest, but my dominant hand doesn't agree. Before I know it, _allergy_ is noted on the white board.

"What about some sort of toxicity?" Chase asks.

I write this down as well. "Anything else?" I inquire. They shake their heads. "So here we have it: STDs. Clots. Allergies. Toxins. Everybody take one to research, narrow down, and test for. That way we can all laugh as we pick off the losers. I call clots."

"Allergies," Cameron claims.

"I'll take STDs," Chase says.

Foreman groans. "Toxins?" he says exasperatedly.

"They're more likely than clots," I offer helpfully.

"Then why did you pick them?" Cameron wonders out loud.

"No research, no narrowing," I reply. "One simple little scan and my work is done. I call first dibs on the patient." I flounce out of the room…or at least what constitutes as flouncing under the limitations my bad leg lends. The makings of my holy medical trinity tiredly pull out my mini-library of medical books and begin to read.

* * *

"This thing is gonna take pictures of me?" Becca asks incredulously. 

"Cool, huh?" I say, giving her an injection of contrast. "If you think you're cute now, wait until you see all of your internal organs."

"Gross," she says. "Like my guts and stuff?"

"I'm only going to be looking at your heart today," I reply, wondering if maybe I should search for something that would pass for a brain as well, just to make sure she has one. "Alright, you're going to go inside of this machine –"

"And get an MRI."

"Oh, good, you remembered," I say. "The next thing I know, I'll be working for _you_."

Becca smiles. "I'm not going to be a doctor."

"Why not? It's fun. When you meet people you don't like, you get to stick them with needles to draw blood and pretend you missed their vein." That's the fun part of it for me, at least.

She frowns. "Is that why Dr. Chase had to try three times before he was able to get blood?"

_Oh, crap_. "No, no, nothing like that," I assure her quickly. "Dr. Chase just doesn't see very well sometimes."

"Oh," she says. "Okay."

I continue. "You're going to hear something that sounds like banging. It's just the machine taking pictures, so don't hit the call button unless you feel sick. I'll be taking a series of scans to make sure I don't miss anything. Any questions?" I don't wait for her to answer. "Good. Try to not to move after I put you in."

I press a few buttons, and she's off. Once out of the room, I sit down at the computer and watch as the MRI begins to snap shots of her heart. "This first scan is going to be twenty seconds…"

* * *

One hour and fifteen minutes later, Becca's MRI is complete. When she appears from the abyss of the machine, my heart skips a beat as I see her eyes are closed and she is still. "Becca?" I say, shaking her violently. "Becca?" 

She stirs and blinks tiredly. "Are we done already?"

I mentally kick myself. Patients fall asleep in the MRI all the time…at least the ones that aren't claustrophobic. "Oh," I say. "Yes, we're done."

"Can I see the pictures of my heart?" she asks eagerly.

"They're not developed yet, but sooner or later you can," I promise.

"What's wrong with me?" she asks. "Do you know?"

_My God, do you ever shut up?_ "I'm not sure yet," I reply, bored of all the questions. "Sometimes it's not always clear and you have to look at the scan for a while to see the problem." I glance at the door, looking for the nurse I paged nearly two minutes ago to get a wheelchair to take Becca back to her room.

"That's why I can't be a doctor," she confides suddenly, sitting up on the table.

"Why?" I ask.

She shrugs nonchalantly, staring at her pink-painted toenails. "I'm not smart enough," she replies.

"Of course you are," I lie. "You'd be surprised at all the idiots who get their medical license, and trust me, you can run circles around them." The sad thing is, this part is true.

Becca shakes her head, not seeming to mind. "No, I'm not. Doctors have to be _really_ smart, like, geniuses, and they need to work really hard, and go to school for a really long time. And if you do something wrong, someone dies because of it. I don't think I could stand that kind of pressure." Then, just as I'm beginning to think that this girl might just have an at least partially functional brainstem, she adds, "Anyway, I don't want to be a doctor. I want to be a model."

"Oh, do you, now?" I say, feigning interest.

"Yeah," she says, smiling. "But I'm such a fatty. I need to lose, like, ten pounds at least."

Her limbs are so painfully thin they'd snap like a twig under any amount of pressure. Her cheeks look like they're caving in, and her collarbone is so sharp and pointed I'm afraid it's going to pierce through her skin. "You know, you're beautiful just the way you are," I tell her, feeling far too much like a t.v. dad for comfort instead of the brilliant-minded physician I am.

After what seems like a year, the nurse finally shows up with the wheelchair. "Cuddy's going to hear about this," I hiss into her ear as she sets Becca up to be whisked away to her room. "Don't think I won't tell her."

"Then I guess someone doesn't plan on getting a lollipop from the goodie jar after he puts in his clinic hours anymore, does he?" she asks in a low voice, smirking at me.

"Don't threaten me with Dum-Dum deprivation," I warn her as we step into the hall. "Or I'll tell Cuddy about all those little rendezvous you had with Dr. Wilson in the janitor's closet during your breaks last month."

"I never did anything like that," she says, surprised. "I don't even know who Dr. Wilson _is_."

"First Lesson in Blackmailing 101," I say, striding into the elevator with them. "As long as you're convincing enough, nothing you say has to be true."

The nurse rolls her eyes but says nothing, which takes the fun out of the whole conversation. The second floor is slow in coming, but finally we reach it. We step into the hall in order to go our separate ways.

I am three feet from my office when I hear the most obnoxious sound I have ever heard in my life coming down the hall. I'm not the only one who has noticed. Everything stops and goes motionless and silent as we listen to an insufferable chant coming from Becca's room.

The first one to move, I stomp down the hall, good and annoyed, to see what the hell is going on. I turn into Becca's room and find her clapping her hands to the beat of what is possibly the worst cheerleading assonance ever written.

"Give me a B!" cries the ringleader.

"B!" chorus the girls.

"Give me an E!"

"E!"

"Give me a C squared!"

"C squared!" _Are they in too much of a hurry to spell her name out the right way?_

"Give me an A!"

"A!"

"What's that spell, ladies?"

I half-expect them to break their stance and go into full-thinking mode, they're all so typically blonde. "Becca!" they cry gleefully. "She can do it, she's not sick, she's a really healthy chick! Woohoo!" They burst into a fit of giggles and swarm around Becca, smothering her in hugs, pom-poms, and flowers.

"Aren't they adorable?"

I glance in the direction of the voice to see the Donahues, complete with an extremely irate Isabelle, sitting in the corner.

"You have such lovely friends, Becca," Mr. Donahue says, eyeing the girl who led the chant hungrily. This is when I notice that they all happen to be wearing rather revealing little cheerleading skirts and corset-tight tank-tops. I wonder if it constitutes a violation of the dress-code, even though the school paid for the damn things.

"So how are you feeling?" one of the girls asks as Becca climbs into her bed.

"Really good, now that you guys are here," she says happily. All five of her friends climb up and sit down around her. "They just took an MRI. It's like a picture of my heart."

They ooh and ah at the concept and immediately move on to more interesting topics of conversation, if one considers who got suspended for fighting whom at school that day and the price of upper-lip waxing at the new salon on the corner interesting.

"Becca, we're going to go home for a little while, okay? Unless you want us to stay," Mrs. Donahue says.

"I'll be fine, Mommy," she coos. Her parents kiss her on her head and Isabelle gives her an awkward hug. Isabelle peels away from her sister slowly as her friends stare at her like she's a leper. One makes a comment about Satan-worshipping and they all burst into unladylike giggles.

"See what I mean?" she whispers as she passes me on her way out. "Reason number 103 why my sister is stupid: look at her friends."

I nod slowly, then enter the room to check Becca's vitals one last time. The chatter rises up amongst them like a thick fog of words, and they don't even notice I'm there. "Your sister is such a weirdo," chimes one girl.

"I can't even believe you're related to her," comments another, flipping her blonde mane of hair all over the place, including up my nose and over my eyes. "You're just so different."

"In a good way," comments the head cheerleader, obviously Becca's best friend. "For you, at least. Isabelle's definitely lame."

For a moment, I look at Becca and think she's going to defend her sister. She catches my gaze and holds it, but stares through me like I'm nothing but thin air. She turns back to her friends and replies frivolously, "Isabelle's the _lamest_."

I sense another presence in the room, and I turn to the doorway. Isabelle is standing there, motioning silently at the chair in which her mother had been sitting. _Forgot her purse_, she mouths at me, taking a step into the room.

I grab it hurriedly and move to bring it to her. I don't want her to hear this…

"Like, I hate sharing a closet with her, because I'm afraid her freakhood will rub off on my clothes," she says. They all burst into loud, cackling laughter. Isabelle's jaw drops, but her sister still doesn't see her. "My sister is so uncool."

Isabelle glares at her, but I catch a faint tremor in her lower lip as she icily retorts, "I might not be cool, but don't think that makes you any 'hotter.'"

The head cheerleader calls her a female dog and commands her to go to the fiery underworld where Satan bases his operations. I am torn between using one of about a dozen creative comebacks that come to mind and duct-taping Isabelle's ego back together. I have to choose fast, because she's moving down the hall at at least 500-horsepower. Maybe more.

I make up my mind, making a mental note to deal with the slut squad later. I stumble down the hall, unable to move quite as fast as she is. I take my last resort: calling out her name. "Isabelle," I say.

"What do you want?" she asks irritably, but thank God, she _stops_.

I catch up with her. "I'm sorry you had to hear that."

She rolls her eyes and lets out a humorless laugh. "After years of hearing those ditzes verbally bash me every chance they get, I guess I should be used to it by now."

"I know you don't give a damn about _them_," I say. "Your sister's the one that's being unusually nasty."

"I talk about her plenty behind her back," she protests, more to herself than to me. "I have no right to feel insulted."

I try to think of excuses for her, but unfortunately enough, she's right. "Well," I say carefully, wondering what I could say that _wouldn't_ intensify the problem. "Two wrongs don't make a right." Isabelle stands in front of me, head held high, lips pursed. Her pride is splintered, and she'd rather choke on the pieces than admit it. "I say we crush up laxatives and put them in her applesauce for dinner. We'll see how hot she feels when she's crawling to the bathroom every three minutes come bedtime."

Isabelle laughs, high and appreciative. "Nice try, but she'd probably write you a thank-you note for getting rid of those last ten pounds she needs to lose before her modeling debut."

"I could argue for a catheter," I suggest. "Those are pretty damn painful."

"Put her in diapers," Isabelle says. "I want her humiliated, not writhing in pain."

"Diapers usually require that the patient be incontinent," I remind her, "which brings us back to the laxatives."

She considers this for a moment. "Do it," she says finally, a grin breaking out on her face.

I grin too, but it's a tainted grin, spoiled by my professional responsibilities. "It's illegal for me to do that, you know," I admit somberly.

"I know," she says, coming down from the exhilaration of the prospect. "But thanks for pretending." A low hum rises in the air, and she glances into her purse. "Damn it, Mother," she grumbles. "My parents are calling me. They probably think I got lost."

"Tell them the elevators broke," I offer.

She flashes me another grateful smile as she walks away. I savor it and decide that maybe using my jerk powers for good once in a while isn't such a horrible thing. Heading back to my office, I revel for a moment in the illusion that maybe I'm not a complete bastard after all.

* * *

And that was Chapter Four, m'dears. 

(Shiver) I'm taking the SATs after I post this. Leave lots of sycophantic reviews so I'm pumped for the test. :) Okay, okay, I'll settle for honest ones. If you really, truly insist...

More to come soon.


	5. Party Animals

**Item One:** Thank you for the reviews, as always!  
**Item Two:** Sorry it's been so long since the last update. I went college visiting over spring break – an _exhausting _pastime, let me tell you – and I've been rather pre-occupied with all that stuff and bother.  
**Item Three:** This chapter sucks, just so you know. Oh damn, I spoiled the surprise.

* * *

Chapter Five: 

"House?" Chase says timidly as he strides into my office. It's six o'clock, and I've just concluded that there is nothing on Becca's MRI to call intriguing. "There's a problem."

"With what?" I ask. "A patient?" He nods somberly. "Becca?"

"I think you'd better come take a look at this," he suggests nervously.

I grab my cane and stand up, mystified. I've never seen such a perplexed look on Chase's face before. I follow him to room 211 and peer in. "What is _this_?" I ask in a disgusted voice.

"I think it might be a party," he says, sounding pained.

Unfortunately, he's right: Becca and her friends are the first people ever to succeed in having a good time at PPTH. Instead of just six girls, there are now eight girls and four boys. A radio is blasting "My Humps" so loudly it's a wonder the windows haven't shattered. A few of the kids are dancing – _dancing!_ – and most of them are drinking beer, though only God knows how they got it into the hospital. One couple is making out on the foot of Becca's bed. I don't know what disgusts me more: the fact that they can't find a better place than a hospital to conduct their torrid love affair, or the fact that no one, including Becca, seems to mind.

"I'll fix this," I assure Chase, then push him aside and step into the room. I stride to the radio and change the station to oldies. To my delight, "Unchained Melody" is the song playing – it's _perfect_. "Now _this_ is music," I say, beginning to sway with the music. I sidle up to one of the girls that had been dancing and ask, "May I have this dance?"

Someone cuts off the radio abruptly, and they stare at me with fearful looks on their faces. They all somberly set down their drinks. The kids on the bed even momentarily stops fondling each other to observe the change in mood. I try not to look at Chase, because I know he's doing his best not to laugh, and if I catch his eye we'll both dissolve into hysterical fits of snickering.

"Dude," one of the boys says disbelievingly. "_Ewww_."

I glance at him and read his rose-colored t-shirt in distaste. "'Real men wear pink,'" I say. "Real men don't need to tell everyone why they're taking the road less traveled." I point at Chase's shirt. "Case in point: while Dr. Chase's masculinity is disputed for other reasons, you can't knock the shirt he's wearing. It's pink, just like yours except not as obvious. He's even got a nice magenta tie to go with it. Now, how many of you fine, upstanding young ladies would rather hook up with Dr. Chase or…"

"Darin," the boy supplies.

_Ah,_ I think. _This be the baby daddy._ "Thank you. Chase?" Every hand goes up. "Darin?" They fall abruptly.

"Becca, what the hell?" Darin asks. "I thought you liked me."

"I do like you, boo," she coos.

"Then why'd you raise your hand for Dr. Chase?"

Becca shrugs. "His shirt _is_ prettier," she admits. "Like, it's nicer. And the tie is definitely hot."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my colleague growing slightly more antsy. Enough is enough. "Possibly even more important than this issue of whose shirt is prettier," I continue, "is the fact that there are _twelve_ minors drinking beer in this hospital room, not to mention making out and disturbing our other patients with the noise."

"We're not being _that_ loud," one girl protests. "Like, you should have heard what we sounded like when Krista's parents went away for the weekend."

Another girl, presumably Krista, shrugs modestly. "It was a pretty good party," she says.

"You _do_ realize I have to report you for this," I say. "It's like a game of hot potato: the person who gets caught helping you guys break the law wins a ticket to jail and a huge-ass fine." Cries of "Awww, man!" and "No fair!" arise all around the room. I silence them with a simple outstretch of my hand. "I know, I know. Don't worry; if you haven't gotten caught before, I'm pretty sure you only have to do a little bit of community service. Of course, that's not including what your parents will do to you."

"You know, you don't _have_ to report us," one of the other boys tries to reason. "You could hang out with us, teach us some of those moves you were busting. Those were pretty cool, right, guys?" They all nod, hesitantly playing along. I hear Chase release a snort and will him to keep it together. "See? You're a pretty awesome dude, Dr., uhhh…"

"House," Becca supplies.

"Yeah, Dr. House," he says. "Come on, man, what do you say? You want a beer?"

I feel my eyebrows knit together involuntarily. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" I ask. "It's sweet of you to include me in your little high school gathering, don't get me wrong, but I have this little thing called a medical license. I can lose it over something like this."

"I've got a car," he tells me exasperatedly. "My parents said if I get caught doing this one more time, they're going to sell it! I'll have to ride the bus to school until the end of time!"

"Car," I say, "or job? Which one's worth more?" I weigh the words in my hands, tilting them from one side to the other, until my right hand finally falls. I glance at it and tell him, "Sorry. Job trumps car every time."

"Dude, you're doing it all wrong," he says. "The big one – the _right_ one's – supposed to come out on top."

"No, the right one weighs more, so it goes down," I inform him. "Think of it this way: put your brain and my brain on this scale. My brain, being extremely large and full of knowledge, weighs more than yours, which probably looks like a moldy piece of Swiss Cheese. My brain is heavier, therefore it goes down. Get it?" The vacant look in his eyes tells me he doesn't. "Less alcohol, more math homework."

He groans and runs his hands through his gnarled, matted hair in frustration. "Dude."

"Dr. Chase, go call security and inform Dr. Cuddy of this unfortunate mishap," I instruct him, not taking my eyes off of the Dirty Dozen. "I'll stay here and teach everyone those dance moves they seemed to like so much."

* * *

An hour later, Becca is all but tied to her bed, her parents are on their way, and Cuddy is having a coronary of her own in my office. "What were they thinking?" she asks me for the millionth time. "Did those little morons really think they weren't going to get caught?" 

"There, there," I say, motioning at one of the comfy chairs in front of my desk. "It's all over now."

"Nobody's ever done this in my hospital before," she observes. "No one knows the protocol for this. We don't even _have_ a protocol for this! What are we supposed to do?"

I stand up, put both of my hands on her shoulders, and bring my face so close to hers she can't help but look me straight in the eyes. "Stop pacing," I command, slowly and evenly. "Sit down. Relax. It's _over_." When I see that she isn't going to move, I steer her towards the chair. She sits obediently, but keeps ranting. I sigh and pour her a glass of water as I listen.

"When you go to a hospital you don't expect to find minors blasting their cacophonous music, dancing, and making out with each other."

"Not to mention the alcohol," I supply.

"I can't believe it," she says. "They even tried to get you drunk! Do they know what you're like when you're drunk?"

"How do _you_ know what I'm like when I'm drunk?"

"You're nasty as hell when you're sober," she says. "I can only assume your crudity would increase with every point on the breathalyzer test."

"The last time I got drunk, I serenaded my Carmen Electra poster with love songs," I inform her, handing her the water. "Here, have a Vicodin. It'll do wonders for your nerves."

I expect her not to take it, seeing as it's illegal to exchange prescription drugs with other people, but she does. She knocks it back dry, which makes my heart swell with pride; imitation is, after all, the sincerest form of flattery. Either that, or she's mocking me. "Thank you," she mumbles, closing her eyes wearily. "What is my hospital coming to?"

"Your hospital isn't the problem," I assure her, taking a seat next to her. "It's the patients. If we didn't have any patients, things would run a lot more smoothly."

"That's the truth."

"And here you're supposed to want to _help_ people," I comment.

"What can I say? I'm sick of this." She leans her head back, eyes still closed, and for a moment I think she's going to fall asleep. Her breathing evens, she stops digging her nails into the arms of my chair, and her left eye even stops twitching.

Then I see it. Her jaw clenches.

"Cuddy…" I warn her.

"I just don't understand," she cries. "These are the kids we're leaving the world to. When we get old, _they're_ going to be the politicians, and the teachers, and the doctors. Christ, House, one of those kids is going to be treating _us_ someday! Doesn't that scare the hell out of you?"

I think of Becca with a scalpel and stiffen. "Try not to think about it," I advise her, attempting to do the same.

Cuddy begins to wring her hands, unaware that she is doing so. A muscle in her jaw works. She blinks quickly, and there's fire in her eyes.

"Don't," I command. "You need to relax."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who's going to take the heat for this." Horror pollutes her otherwise mildly attractive features. "Do you realize that I could go to jail for this?"

"Stripes are a good look for you," I say.

"Not helping," she informs me forlornly, burying her head in her hands. "I hate this. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it…"

"Cuddy, shut up." Ah. So I've finally found my breaking point. "Your little ploy isn't working."

She glares at me. "What little ploy?"

"You and I both know I'm not the comforting type, so give the damsel-in-distress routine a rest."

"You think _that's_ what I'm doing? That I'm looking for a shoulder to cry on?"

"No, I think you're really concerned about the stupid kids," I say sarcastically. "Feel better, by all means. Just don't get any of those fake tears on my jacket." Cuddy takes her water glass and pours it over my head. "That's…refreshing," I comment, trying to sound understanding.

"Therapeutic," she corrects me. "I hope your jacket shrinks so much you can't get it over one arm."

"Hmmm, not unlike your shirt," I reply. "I'm considering purchasing a cannon. Tell me, does being blasted into your clothes every morning do the trick, or would it be easier to buy something that actually fits once in a while?"

Her mouth opens so wide she could swallow a golf ball. "You son of a –"

"House?"

"Dr. Foreman, apologize for interrupting Dr. Cuddy immediately," I command.

"Sorry," he says. "The parents are here. They want to talk to you."

"Imagine that," I say. "Tell them to take a number and get in line. Dr. Cuddy's still not through with me yet."

"I can spare you a few moments to go out there and talk to the parents," she replies a bit too sweetly.

"I'm scared of them," I admit. "Will you hold my hand?"

"You're on your own, hand and all."

"This is your territory. It comes with the sitting-in-the-office-looking-pretty-but-not-really-doing-anything part of hospital administration. I save lives, you do everything else."

"You're the attending physician," she reminds me. "You're the one who found them drinking."

"Technically, that was Dr. Chase, and _you_ are the hospital administrator. You're the one who let them use the hospital like it's a motel." When I see that she isn't looking any more agreeable, I grab her arm with one hand and march her out to the parents.

"What the hell is going on?" Mr. Donahue asks angrily, his wife and daughter behind him. "We leave Becca alone for a couple hours with you people and you can't even keep those kids away from her?"

"Oh, you mean her 'lovely friends?'" I reply. "It seems to me that mere hours ago you were raving about how sweet they are."

"That was before we realized they were bad influences," he says. "Drinking in a hospital room? What kind of kids are those?"

"Poor Becca," Mrs. Donahue murmurs. "The peer pressure must be terrible for her."

"Yeah, Mom, it must have been _excruciating_ for her to convince her friends to bring her all that stuff," Isabelle mutters. "Look up 'peer pressure' in the dictionary and you see her picture next to the definition."

Her father turns on her. "Stop talking about your sister like that!" he demands. "You hardly have room to talk, anyway."

"When was the last time you heard about me doing something like this?"

"You may not be stupid enough to get caught, but you're sure as hell on something."

"It's working better than whatever they've got you on."

"We're awfully sorry about this whole mess," Cuddy interjects nervously. "We caught them before anyone was seriously intoxicated, all of the other children's parents have been contacted, and –"

"And it's all over?" Mr. Donahue scoffs humorlessly. "Not on your life. We're getting Becca out of this place and taking her to a real hospital."

"I wouldn't do that just yet," she warns them helplessly.

"And just why not?"

"She…may not…" Cuddy looks at me for help.

I sigh, but step up to the plate. "Becca's had a heart attack. Since we don't know what her condition is, we can't predict what it will do to her if she's transferred. It's best to keep her here and let us do our jobs."

"You've done such a great job of that so far," mutters Mr. Donahue.

"And," Cuddy adds suddenly, brightening, "in twenty-four hours, we'll release her anyway, if nothing else happens."

"No, we won't," I counter.

"Yes, we _will_."

"We can take her home tomorrow?" Mrs. Donahue begins rummaging in her purse for tissues, sobbing tears of joy. Isabelle looks shocked, as if she's just found out the world is flat and she's about to roll off the edge. "That's wonderful!"

"Only if there are no more incidents," Cuddy reminds her, but she looks relieved as the parents begin to twitter excitedly to each other.

"We can't let the kid go," I protest quietly. "She's sick. Between her brains and her heart, she'll croak the second she walks out of this hospital."

"_I'll _croak if she _stays_ in this hospital one more second," she hisses. "She's out of here tomorrow. I'm done."

"She'll be back within twenty minutes of leaving if you discharge her tomorrow!"

"You can't justify keeping her if she doesn't have any more fainting spells or heart attacks!" Cuddy looks at Isabelle, who has been following our argument intently. "Besides, I'm sure her sister misses her –"

"With all due respect, Dr. Cuddy, if you discharge my sister, I'll scare her into a heart attack myself to get her back here."

"They have such a loving relationship," I comment, noting her shocked expression.

For a moment, Cuddy looks like she's going to put Isabelle on the couch and get to the bottom of her animosity for her sister. Tough luck – that kind of resentment is the thinnest spread of emotion, with no substantial depth to it. I've made up my mind to let her spin her wheels, playing the psychologist she never was, but instead she sighs and turns to me. "You have 24 hours," she says. "Use them well, because they're the last you'll get if all goes well."

* * *

A/N: See? What'd I tell you? This chapter was just not very good. I swear on…House _himself_ that something worth reading will happen in the next chapter! 

But _only if you leave reviews_!


	6. The Idea

Thanks ever so much for all the wonderful, reassuring reviews. I guess I should make an effort to improve my writing, but my goal for this chapter is to stop exploiting my low self-esteem with the whole "boohoohoo, my writing sucks" spiel. You'd be surprised how hard it is to get off the self-deprecation, though…

Hmmm, but yes. Moving on to slightly more interesting topics – well, not really – I am hereby updating my disclaimer, in case any of you forget that _I do not own House. _And finally, I'm pleased to announce the arrival of the sixth chapter!

* * *

Chapter Six:

Work ended on a morose note yesterday, and today isn't looking much better. I come into the Department of Diagnostic Medicine to find my team, disgruntled and dismayed, staring mournfully into their coffee cups.

"I take it you've all heard the news," I comment, striding to the coffee machine. "We've got a time bomb hanging over our heads now, limiting our genius, cutting off our flow."

"We can't figure this out in 24 hours," Cameron says forlornly.

"Technically we only have the rest of the workday," Chase replies. "Our clock started ticking last night at approximately 5:30."

"So how many idiots does it take to diagnose a patient?" I ask conversationally.

"More than you four, that's for sure."

"Dr. Wilson," I say, glancing at the figure who dares to darken my door, "do you have something useful to contribute, or are you just wasting my time?"

"I brought those macadamia nut pancakes you seem to like so much," he offers, holding up a Tupperware container.

"Come in," I invite after considering this for a moment. "Set the pancakes on the table, but say nothing."

"Yes, sir," he says dutifully, obeying my orders.

Cameron takes it upon herself to find paper plates and plastic utensils. The five of us take a few moments to pile Wilson's pancakes onto our plates and drench them in syrup. I begin to speak, my mouth only half-full – I _do_ have manners. "As I recall, we each took a possible cause of the heart attacks and evaluated them. What can you tell me?"

"I tested her for the most common allergens," Cameron says. "Most came back negative, except for peanuts."

"Peanuts, eh?" I say. "I like it."

"The family has known about the allergy since she was three," she adds hurriedly. "Becca says she hasn't had any peanuts since then."

"What's her reaction like?" I ask. "Are we talking little itsy-bitsy hives, or something more fun like anaphylaxis?"

"Nothing more enjoyable than anaphylaxis," Jimmy comments dryly, reaching for a second pancake.

"Children are to be seen and not heard," I say. "Oncologists, on the other hand, are not to be seen _or_ heard. They're too ugly. So technically, we're already breaking one rule. Don't make us break another."

Cameron stifles a giggle and continues. "Anaphylaxis," she replies, "which, just so you know, is entirely different from a heart attack."

"Still, it's something," I muse. "Look into this further. Next?"

"I had STDs," Chase volunteers.

"Is that supposed to surprise me?" I ask.

He glares at me. "My only logical guesses would have to be cardiovascular syphilis or AIDS."

"And what about illogical guesses?"

"They're pointless."

I lean over and put my mouth in his ear. I know, I know, he's waiting for me to whisper a few tender sweet nothings; no such luck. "Hello?" I bellow. "Is there a brain in there or just empty space?" I yodel for good measure, then step away to let his ears stop ringing. "I'll ask you again: do you have any illogical guesses?"

"I'm sure I can come up with something," he mutters.

"And what about you, Toxin Boy?"

"Well, I've always wanted to be a superhero," Foreman chuckles, taking out a stack of notes.

"You're the Batman to my Robin," I say. "I do all the work, and you just wear the lab suit and look pretty."

"And yet I'm the one who did the most research on this case," he says.

"You only get points for coming up with something we can actually use," I remind him.

His more or less amused expression fades as he presents his findings. "Any substance taken in a great excess could cause a breakdown of the circulatory system. I'm still narrowing down the specifics, but even after that, we'll have to try our luck. There are far too many tests to run to look for all of them."

I grimace. Teenagers, in my experience, do stupid things, but most of them would rather smoke pot than sprinkle arsenic on their cereal. It's unlikely that Becca, even with her extensive experience with rare and illegal substances, has come in contact with any of the things we'd be testing for.

"Who had clots?" Chase asks.

They all glance at me expectantly. "The MRI revealed nothing," I inform them. "No clots, no other abnormalities."

"Now what?" Cameron asks.

"You haven't considered cancer," Wilson reminds us as he crumples up a napkin.

"Pray tell, doctor, what kind of cancer causes heart attacks and fainting in a teenage girl?" I ask.

He pauses, reflecting on hismany years of medical training. "None that I can think of," he says finally, "if the cancer is playing by the rules, that is."

"Since when does cancer play by the rules?"

"It's generally well-behaved for me, but I suppose around you it doesn't have any fun unless it's sneaky."

"Is that some sort of bizarre compliment alluding to my towering intellect and mad diagnostic skills?"

"If you like."

"Oh, stop, you're making me blush," I say, pleased.

"Let me take a look at the MRI," he suggests.

"Why?" I ask defensively. "You don't trust me to let you know if I see a huge black spot in the middle of her heart? I'm no oncologist, but I think I know what a tumor looks like."

"They always do," he replies. "Then I come along and show off _my_ diagnostic skills."

"Oh, did Julie give you some for your birthday?" I ask. "I'd love to sit and debate the matter further, but you seem to forget we have a life hanging in the balance here. Wilson, if you think it's a tumor, take these –" I hand him the MRI scans "– and go crazy. Foreman, continue in your narrowing; Chase, find me some _real_ STDs; and Cameron…give her a peanut and see what she does."

"Sure, the family will _love_ that," she mutters, standing up.

"Don't you remember how thrilled they were when they found out what a delightful taste she had in beer?"

"I'm going to the clinic," she calls as she steps out the door.

Chase, Foreman, and Wilson look at me expectantly. "_I'm_ certainly not the fastest one of us," I say. "_I'm _not going to catch her."

"You know," Foreman says, "I think I'll go with her."

"Me too," Chase adds eagerly. They both stand up and hurry out the door.

I glance at Wilson. "Are you going to abandon me too?"

"Abandonment means there's something there to leave behind," he says knowingly.

"Was that supposed to be deep and thoughtful?" I ask. "I can see why Julie cheated on you. There's not a romantic bone in your body."

"How would you know?"

"I have x-ray vision. I'll do a full-body scan to prove it if you like."

"I wish I had x-ray vision," he says forlornly, glancing a passing posse of extremely attractive young medical students being given their inaugurational tour of PPTH.

"You have an overactive imagination; that's good enough," I reply. "What do you have to do today?"

"Budget reports, a few follow-up calls to make on treatments, I'm scheduled for three hours in the clinic after lunch, and – oh yeah – there are these people that come into the office sometimes that need help. Patients, I think they're called. Ever heard of them?"

"Scary little devils, aren't they? I barely escaped with my life the last time I saw one."

"Tell me about it." He stands up. "Well, I'm off into the jungle."

"Bring me back a souvenir," I remind him as he walks to the door. "Native girls wearing coconuts and grass skirts are hot."

"If I escape with my life," he promises, and he is gone.

* * *

Free time is only useful if you do something constructive with it, which is exactly why I'm hiding in my office, counting ceiling tiles and contemplating Becca's case. I know we're missing something. We always are, at first.

Someone raps on my door and I momentarily avert my eyes from the ceiling to see who it is. Oh, damn, it's Cuddy. Better act like I'm working.

"My God, House, slow down," she says hurriedly, coming in. "You still have five hours to find out what's wrong with her. You might get hurt, working so hard."

I breathe a sigh of relief. "You know, I was just hoping you'd give me permission to relax."

"Come up with anything good yet?" she asks, sitting down in a chair in front of my desk.

"Not a thing," I reply. "All my team's fault. I even did an MRI."

"Can I see the scans?"

"They're with Wilson. He's looking for cancer."

"As if you couldn't find a big black spot on the scan."

"Try telling Super-Doctor that."

We are both silent for a moment. "Okay, I'm sorry," she blurts out.

"For what?" I ask, truly surprised. This is news to me.

"You were right yesterday," she admits. "I should have stepped up to the plate and handled the parents myself. It's my responsibility. You did your job after you found them; I should have done mine."

I stand up, lean across the desk, and touch her forehead. "Hmmm, no fever," I conclude thoughtfully. "Something's up. This isn't the Cuddy I know."

"I'm owning up to my mistakes."

"Well, in that case, I'm sorry too," I reply. "I am also sorry you didn't step up to the plate. Would have made my life a hell of a lot easier. Imagine, we could have kept the patient for one, possibly even two more days! As it is, we only have a few hours."

"Yeah, listen, about that…" she says.

I wait expectantly, then realize she's waiting for an invitation. "About what?" I ask. "Cuddy, is this going to be bad news?"

"Depends. Would you consider your glass half-empty or half-full?"

"I don't have a glass. Just spit it out; I have things to do." _Like play video games._

I can see her mentally crossing herself. "The parents are taking her home," she says in a rush.

"I beg your pardon," I say politely after a moment of hesitance. "I didn't quite catch that. It _sounded_ like you said the parents are taking her home, but because that is contrary to reality, you must have said something else."

"Well, actually –"

"Speak up, for those of us who are old and walk with a cane."

She purses her lips. "You know, I might be mistaken. Let me go check." She stands up and goes out into the hall. I lag behind her. She reaches room 211 and steps in. I see from the doorway that Becca is wearing street clothes and her parents are packing for her. Isabelle is nowhere to be seen; she's probably at home preparing the welcome party. "Mr. and Mrs. Donahue, are you absolutely sure you want to do this?" she asks.

"We're sure," Mrs. Donahue says. "This seems like it was an isolated incident, as horrible as it was." I have a sneaking suspicion she's talking about the heart attack, because no mother in her right mind would say that about her kid having a party out of a hospital room.

Then again, what mother is ever in her right mind? She's probably in denial, with a huge side of misplaced maternal pride.

"I see where Becca gets her –" _primitive_, I think, "– powers of deduction," I comment. "It is my expert medical opinion that she should stay here until we find out what's wrong with her."

"Yeah, I can see you're working real hard on that," Mr. Donahue mutters, zipping up an overnight bag.

"There are three…no, wait, _four_ staff members working on her case right now," I inform him. _Except for the fact that they're all in the clinic, wiping runny noses and handing out placebos like candy. _"There _would_ be five, except for the fact that I'm here, trying to convince you not to do this insanely stupid thing you're about to."

"What, getting my daughter out of the hands of a careless doctor?"

"She'll be back before the end of the week. She's safer here, where we can treat her immediately when we find out what's wrong."

"You can't even monitor her visitors; how can I expect you to find out what's wrong with her?"

"You're her daddy, therefore you're the one who's supposed to destroy her social life."

"My dad's never danced in front of my friends like that before," Becca chimes suddenly, glaring at me. Oh boy, am _I_ intimidated; Thing One is mad at me.

"Danced?" Mrs. Donahue repeats, frowning.

"_Danced_?" her husband echoes. He stares at me expectantly.

"Wait a minute; I didn't hear this part," Cuddy says. "House, would you like to explain?"

"Not particularly," I admit.

"There was no dancing on this doctor's part," she assures them hurriedly.

"Why did it look weird?" Becca asks. "Something was wrong with you…Oh, your leg!" She stares at my cane, seeming to notice it for the first time. "Wow, that sucks. Now I get why Krista said she felt sorry for you."

They all look at me. I shrug. "Delusions of dancing doctors: another disturbing symptom. Are you _sure_ you don't want to leave her here for another few hours?"

"I think she's safer with Jack the Ripper," Mrs. Donahue whispers to her husband.

"Jack the Ripper, I hear, wasn't very good with a scalpel." With that, I retreat to the safety of my office.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Cuddy passes through to mention that the Donahues are gone. Frankly, I'm not surprised.

* * *

Three days later, I am sitting in the Department of Diagnostic Medicine's lounge with my team. We've trashed the notes, we've recycled the case files, we've even erased the white board. Right now, we're researching.

"Disease affecting the circulation, seen in the extremities. 8 letters," Chase reads from his crossword.

"Reynaud's," we all chime.

He scribbles it in. "What do you know, it fits."

"I want another case," Cameron complains. "We can't sit here expecting them to come to us."

"It's not like we can make people sick," Foreman reminds her.

"Sure you can," I counter. "One look at your face, and they'll flock to the hospital in herds with vomiting, chills, and night terrors instantaneously."

"By that same logic, I suppose you could say Becca keeled over in fright after seeing you. Gregory House presents with heart attacks."

"Yeah, well, your mama," I mutter, taking a swig of coffee.

A ghost appears in the window, so pale and ghastly I almost do the unthinkable and spit the coffee out. Instead I swallow it quickly and ask, "What is _that_ doing there?"

Cameron glances up. "It's Isabelle," she says in surprise.

"Ah, the little twin that couldn't," I say, "be as much of an idiot as the rest of her family, that is. Come in." I motion a welcome to her.

Isabelle steps into the room and stands in the corner shyly.

"We don't bite," I tell her. "I should warn you, though, Chase has a nasty habit of licking people when they get too close."

"She's a minor," he replies nonchalantly. "She's safe."

"It hasn't stopped you before."

Isabelle takes a step back, eyeing us warily. "Becca's back," she says. "She had another heart attack. They just brought her in ten minutes ago."

I throw my hands up in victory. "I _knew_ this would happen," I inform them triumphantly. "Nobody ever listens to me."

"It's hard _not_ to, when you talk all the time anyway," Chase mutters.

"Cuddy will be here in about two minutes with a blush on her cheek and a file in her hand," I predict. "Let's send her right back out with a diagnosis. Go to it, team."

They stare at me blankly.

"Stunning performance," Isabelle says after a moment. "I never would have thought of _that_."

"They're…tired," I say dismissively. "Come on, what were you saying before? Cameron, you had something about…almonds?"

"Peanuts," she corrects me, sounding pained.

"Chase?"

"Still working on your illogical guesses, and if you yodel in my ear again, I'll quit."

"Make a note of that," I instruct Cameron. "Foreman?"

"Anything and everything for toxins," he replies.

"Impressive," Isabelle says.

Cuddy raps on the door. "House! She's back!"

"Okay." She nods and scurries to her office to write up the paperwork. "Cameron, go take vitals. Chase, take some blood and get counts of all the cells. Foreman, after they're done, I want you to get another MRI of the heart to see if anything's changed. Isabelle…"

"I'm going to the vending machines," she announces.

"Bring me some Skittles," I request. "And I'm short on cash again."

"The bank of Isabelle is closed. Try again tomorrow."

"I can't save your body double's life without some sustenance, man. Work with me."

She sighs. "Look, my parents kind of got pissed at me for talking back to them and they cut off my allowance for a month."

"Let that be a lesson to you: don't diss people that can't appreciate your wit." I hand her a few quarters. "Good-bye."

Once they've run off to do their duties, I step into my office and walk to my desk. There, I open the bottom drawer and pull out the most useful invention known to mankind: the baby monitor. I pick it up and stand casually in the hall until Foreman wheels Becca out of the room, then walk down the hall and set the speaker up underneath the IV. The receiver sits in my office, itching for a test drive.

Thank God for cell phones. I pull mine out and dial Wilson.

"Dr. Wilson," he answers.

"Can you do me a favor?" I ask.

"I'm sure I could if I really tried," he replies.

"Go to my office."

I can practically hear him blinking in confusion. "What's in your office?"

"Just do it."

"Yes, sir," he says dutifully. "And I'm doing this why?"

"You'll see."

I listen as he walks from his office to mine. "I'm in."

"Do you see the baby monitor on my desk?"

"House, is there something you need to tell me?"

"Turn it on."

He does. "Now what?"

"Put your cell phone down." I give him five seconds, then sing the most random song I can think of. "'Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?'" I ask. "'Don't you wish your girlfriend was a freak like me? Don't ya?'" I wait for a moment, then ask,"Can you hear me now?"

"Yes, and I'll be honest: I wish I hadn't."

"Good."

"Can I ask what the whole point of this strange and lewd experiment was?"

I step into the hall, satisfied with my work. "Well," I say, as my office comes into view. Jimmy glances up at me through the glass walls with a questioning look on his face. I hang up and step in. "There aren't going to be anymore of those all-the-rage hospital parties on my watch again. I've just installed the most cutting-edge surveillance technology the world has ever seen."

"Baby monitors have been around since _you_ were in diapers."

I blatantly ignore his comment. "Well, at any rate, it's the most inconspicuous. Try getting anything past me with this on my side."

I know when he walks out in a huff that he's jealous. It's not everybody that can come up with sucha brilliant idea, after all. I lounge in my chair and wait for what happens next.

* * *

FYI: The song used above it by the Pussycat Dolls, whom I can see House listening to without too much difficulty, as he has an extensivetaste in music.

You know, my birthday's coming up. I'd sure love some reviews. (I know, not a very subtle hint, but it's all I can come up with right now.) Chapter Seven should be up shortly.


	7. Setting Up Surveillance

Heyyyyyyyyy, long time no update. It's good to be back. Chapter Seven is long, and there's a bit of heart-wrenching, emotional drama around the middle. Tell me if it's too melodramatic; I wrote this kind of late at night. Catch you at the end of the chapter!

* * *

Chapter Seven: 

"House..."

Chase's voice bursts through my dream like a grenade, and in an instant my dream girl (think Jessica Simpson plus about forty more I.Q. points) disappears into the fog of my subconscious. Darkness forms behind my eyelids, and I groan, unable to grasp the horror of waking up.

"House!"

I open my eyes and fix a cool gaze on Chase. "What?" I ask. "Did Becca try to talk you into playing Spin the Bottle?"

"It's five o'clock. Time to go home." He shoots a suspicious glance at the baby monitor and continues nonchalantly, "Of course, I could understand if you'd like to stay and listen to the sounds of silence coming from Becca's room instead."

"Nice try, but I'm not listening in on Becca," I lie. "The other half of this sucker is set up in Cuddy's office. I like to know what she's doing."

"I _saw_ the other half under the IV," Chase insists. "I moved it behind the heart monitors - less conspicuous that way. It might be a little harder to hear, but I turned the volume up as far as it would go to compensate."

"Thank you, but I think I can manage without your meaningless input." I mentally kick myself – Chase, of all people, has bested me in the art of surveillance. "I know it's hard for you, but please, stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. This is a one-man operation."

"It would go a lot easier with someone on your side."

"Wouldn't it be still easier for you to rat me out to Cuddy or some other figure of authority?"

"You're my boss. My loyalties lie with you."

I chuckle. "Your loyalties – for what little they're worth – lie with the people that can benefit you most. Right now, that's me. I'm waiting for Vogler's evil twin to come along and snatch you up like a lucky penny."

"I'm pretty sure Vogler _was_ the evil twin, provided he had one to begin with."

Cameron marches through the door. "Are you two enjoying your leisurely conversation while Eric and I work our asses off?"

I bring my index finger to my lip and consider her statement. "Chase and I have worked up quite a sweat ourselves. We've been trying this new thing – teamwork – where we talk about what's wrong with the patient and try to reach a consensus. Call me crazy, but it just might work." I give him a subtle wink. "Don't worry – she'll never know we were talking about whether or not she's good in bed. But moving on to more interesting topics –" she interjects with a frustrated _uh!_ as I take the file in her hand and open it to the vitals. "Alright, my little diva, time for a recital."

She rolls her eyes, already recovered. I'll make a man out of her in no time. "Can't you ever say anything literally?"

"The metaphors are more fun. Kind of like, 'Sing like a canary, or I'll set the cat out after you.'"

"Who's the cat?" Chase asks.

"Never mind with the cat; we've got bigger problems." Cameron hands me the folder and continues. "Becca's vitals are slightly high, but stable."

"What's 'slightly high?'"

"The high end of normal – in other words, not indicative of the heart attack she had mere hours ago. Or would it be easier for you to understand if I said…umm…her vitals were straddling the line of normalcy like a high school football team at Homecoming tied with the opponent at the last fifteen seconds?" She looks at me hopefully.

"I'm beginning to understand why I published Foreman's article over yours, other than sheer amusement," I admit. "Your command of the English language is worse than G-Unit's. But not to worry: I just happen to be multi-lingual, and I speak your language…What were we talking about again?"

"The patient," they remind me simultaneously.

"Ah, yes. So she's…normal?"

"As normal as they come," Chase responds, reading over the file.

"Yes, but –" Cameron pauses as the baby monitor begins to make some unintelligible noises that sound vaguely like a human voice. Chase and I both leap to turn it off. "What is _that_?" she asks, intrigued.

"Nothing," we reply automatically.

She tries to peer over our shoulders. Chase and I, however, are tall drinks of water; there's no way she's getting past us. She steps back and taps her foot thoughtfully, mocking us. "House and Chase, working together," she murmurs. "_That's _an alliance I didn't think was possible."

"What do we even have to be allied _in_?" I ask.

"Not much," she admits. I relax a little, and Chase and I move apart.

I swear I see the idea come over her. Her eyes steel over in determination, and she lunges like a football player through the divide between us and ends up, half-sprawled on my desk, prize in hand. "A baby monitor," she announces triumphantly as she rights herself. Her expression changes from pride to confusion. "What the hell is this for?"

"There's something I haven't told you," I admit.

"Oh boy," she mutters. "I'm not sure you should."

"Then I won't. That was easy, wasn't it?"

"Chase, what's going on?"

He licks his lips nervously. "Umm…"

"Come on, you can tell me," she coos.

"Save the pillow talk for after-hours," I say. "This is serious."

"What's serious?" Cameron asks. "It's just a baby monitor, Dr. House. Not worth keeping –"

"_Excellent_ point, Dr. Cameron. Well, no use standing around giving it more attention than it's worth. I'm off to the little boys' room." I walk toward the door, baby monitor in hand.

"Dr. House, don't you think we should –"

"A little help here, Chase? Time to exercise your loyalties – shield my getaway, take one for the team, all that stuff and bother."

"_I'm _part of the –"

"What do you want me to do?" he asks helplessly.

I wave my hand dismissively. "Drag her off to a supply closet and have your way with her. Serenade her with Aboriginal love songs on your magical didgeridoo. Buy her a puppy, for God's sake – just distract her." I leave Chase to the grueling task of entertaining Cameron and make for the bathroom. I set up the baby monitor on the paper towel dispenser and increase the volume.

"You're kidding!" Isabelle exclaims. "What do you mean we're not going home tonight?"

"Your sister is very sick –" begins her mother.

"Yeah, I'm sick!"

"You know, Princess Isabelle, you can't always get what you want."

_But if you try sometimes, you get what you need._ Mr. Donahue, at least, has good taste in music.

"This is beyond what I _want_. If I don't get out of here, I'm going to snap."

"I'm sure they have a psych ward somewhere with a nice room where they can strap you down. That's probably where you belong anyway."

I hear unintelligible muttering in the background and grimace. I'll never know if she achieved the height of wit in her comeback or is in need of immediate help in the art of repartee.

"Then hitchhike home, for all I care," her father grumbles. "Maybe we'll all get lucky and you'll catch a ride with a psychopath."

_Damn, _I think. _My dad was no ray of sunshine, but this guy makes him look like Mr. Rogers._

"What's one more screwball after living with you for so long?"

A loud noise that can only be described as a _whack!_ streaks through the speakers, and I see my frown deepen in the mirror. I know it's selfish, but all I can think is that the amount of paperwork will be ungodly if that sound was what I think it was.

"Very mature, Dad." She sounds far too calm for what has just happened. "Just slam the newspaper on the ground and walk away." Oh. Well, that changes things. "Why don't you ground me like a real dad? Yell at me, tell me you're disappointed in me – something I can work with."

"I'm going to the bathroom," he says icily. I can see him gesture at Becca in my mind's eye as he says, "Why didn't this happen to the right daughter?"

_That settles it_, I think. _This guy is possibly more of a jerk than I am._ I contemplate for a moment the sorts of horrific things that could have caused such dysfunction between a father and daughter.

The bathroom door swings open; light floods in. I shove the baby monitor into my pants – the only place it occurs to me to hide it. _Idiot_, I scold myself. _You knew he was coming!_

Mr. Donahue and I come face to face. "Dr. House," he says, eyeing my impressive new package. "That's new," he says finally.

"Yeah, well, so is your tie," I reply, trying to divert his attention. "Hospital gift shop? Planning to stick around for a day or two? I'd advise against it. Family tensions will be through the roof in no time."

"Boy, that's the truth," he mutters. "We thought this was all over."

I shrug innocently. "Hate to say I told you so."

"Then _don't_." He paces the floor anxiously. "Everything is going wrong. One of my kids is sick –"

"And the other isn't going fast enough," I finish sympathetically. "Would have been easier if it had been Isabelle, right? Maybe she'd finally shut up, give you and the missus a rest."

He glances at me, surprised. "Exactly."

To avoid the inevitable awkward silence, I keep talking. "I'll bet you fell like dropping her off in the psych ward sometimes –"

"Alright, you know what? Shut up. Jesus." He stares me down, head to toe, his gaze lingering only for a second on the baby monitor. "What do you have, ESP or something?"

"Sometimes they call me House the Mystic," I say. What do you know, it has a ring to it. "Nine times out of ten, I can sense a woman's pregnancy the second she steps into my office."

"And the one time you don't sense it? What happens then? Do they all turn out like my daughter?"

"Most of them don't have heart attacks."

"Do you know what's wrong with her yet?"

"No, sir."

"Then why are you _here_?"

"Every doctor pees."

"Yeah, well, every doctor doesn't start packing like that overnight. That isn't natural, if you don't mind my saying so. Maybe you should have that checked out."

"Strange things happen to our bodies, Mr. Donahue. Sometimes they're bad, sometimes they're good. What's going on with Becca – _that's_ a bad thing. But _this_ is a medical miracle, and I refuse to question it." I pat him on the back as I walk out. "You can't always get what you want."

I step into the hall, wondering how teenage boys do this day in and day out. I have to strut like a cowboy to keep my pants at my hips where they belong, although it feels like a lost cause already.

I am so intent in my quest to make it safely to my office without turning too many heads that I don't even notice Isabelle as she rounds the corner. We nearly collide, but she jumps out of my way just in time. "I'm –" she begins, then her eyes widen as she looks down. "Dr. House?"

"No, you're Isabelle. _I'm_ House."

"What happened to you?"

I shrug. "I got a haircut."

She gives a low whistle. "Congratulations, I guess," she says. "I'm leaving. I'll see you around."

Uh-oh. "What, is our hospital not good enough for you? I see how it is – we've got the drama, the heartbreak, the technology, and none of it's good enough."

"There's a little _too_ much drama in your hospital. Not your fault; my family brought it with them."

"Where are you going?"

Isabelle shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe Mexico, where nobody can nag me in my native tongue."

"Isabelle Donahue, the first person to jump the fence in the other direction. Remind me to get an autograph before you leave. How do you plan on getting there from New Jersey?"

"I'll hitchhike if I have to."

"Not a good idea."

"I know, I know, the big bad psychopath will get me."

"What's one more psychopath after growing up in _your_ family?"

"That's what _I_ said!" she exclaims. "They're crazy, and they have no idea!"

"Tell me about it."

"Well –"

"I'll be honest: I was only making conversation. I really don't want to know anything."

"What if it helps you diagnose Becca?" she asks.

"The less I know, the better."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Neither does half the other stuff they teach you in med school. I promise, I fit right into this doctor crowd. I know what I'm doing. Good luck in Mexico – or should I say _buena suerte_?" I wave good-bye and step into my office.

Isabelle follows me. "Isn't it some sort of obstruction of justice to let me go without at least trying to stop me or telling my parents?"

I shrug. "Probably."

"So why don't you do anything about it?"

"Believe it or not, I don't actually think you're hitchhiking to Mexico."

"You're right. I think I'll head northwest to Alaska instead. I've always wanted to live in an igloo."

"I'm sensing some bad blood between you and…well, everybody."

"Every pint of the stuff running through our veins is bad."

I can tell I'm not going to get away without hearing the saga of Isabelle, so I sit back, pop a Vicodin, and relax. "Look, I'm no psychologist, and my listening skills are shot, but as long as you don't mind the fact that I'm not really listening, I don't mind pretending."

"Well, I do mind."

"Then go talk to Dr. Cameron. She loves dramatic, angsty cases like this."

"Too late. Becca got to her, and now every time I see Dr. Cameron, it's like she's giving me the same look all of my sister's friends give me."

"Then she needs to hear your side of the story. Look, I put the 'sense' in 'insensitive.' If you talk to me, you're going to be mocked, ridiculed, and made fun of."

"At least you make fun of everybody, not just one half of the equation," she mumbles.

At last I understand. Isabelle's all about equality – she wants, for once, to be on par with her sister, instead of a million miles below her. Who can argue with that? I pull out my iPod, pop in the headphones, and say, "Begin."

Isabelle reaches over and pulls one bud out. "Well," she says…

* * *

In fifteen minutes, Isabelle details her long, hard family history. As it turns out, this is not the first near-death experience Becca has ever had. At age three, she ate a peanut and her face swelled up the size of a hot air balloon. At age eight, she fell off her bike and had a concussion. At age twelve, she choked on her dinner at her cousin's wedding. Each time, Isabelle was the only one who noticed anything was wrong. Each time, Isabelle was the only one to make a scene until someone would help her. Each time, someone else got the credit for saving her life. 

Her father, mother, and sister have always seemed like the perfect family unit to Isabelle. Whenever she tries to break in, it appears as more of a threat to them than anything else. It's not like she hasn't tried, she reminds me. She's just learned to keep to herself and let them do their own thing. She understands why they cling so closely to Becca; after all, they've almost lost her three – no, _four_ times to date. Isabelle has to wonder, though, why they don't seem to give a damn about her. Is a 4.0 and full reign of the cheerleading squad supposed to be more exalted than saving your sister's life time and time again?

What if something had happened to Isabelle before Becca needed her? Where would they be today? Next to each other for eternity, cold and stiff, in the family plot at the cemetery.

Isabelle has had an especially hard time in dealing with her father. Her mother at least attempts to make the twins equal. Her father, on the other hand, looks down on his daughters and only sees one. Becca is the apple of his eye, the best thing he's ever done. She's friendly, she's pretty, she's got Potential with a capital P. This is a girl that's going places – the only thing better would be a son. Isabelle is just another trial of day-to-day life, seemingly existing only to balance out the good and the bad. Sure, he's sorry he feels this way. He just can't make himself love them both.

"And that's it," she finishes, her voice quivering slightly. I wordlessly hand her a tissue. "Maybe now you understand the whole hitchhiking-to-Mexico plan."

"Oh, I understand," I assure her. "I just don't agree with you." She glances at me, surprised. "It's harder to live as a martyr than die as one, isn't it? You're Becca's saving grace, but she keeps you in the shadows until she needs you. You love your sister enough to die for her, but the real question lies with whether or not you can suck it up enough to stand by her another minute in life."

"I'm still here, aren't I?" she asks, glaring at me through eyes circled with heavy black eyeliner. "Is it too much to ask that my family even care that I've been their constant through thick and thin?"

"_Yes_. That's what families are. They're more than people living in the same house that share some common alleles and hate each other. If you learn to love them, you're stuck with them no matter what. When they run out of feeling for you, you're still stuck picking up the pieces because you care. Love is a nice thing to be able to do, but it doesn't get you anywhere, least of all with your family. Trust me: much easier to hate everyone you meet, no matter if you have their eyes or their chin or their smile."

"I haven't stuck around because I love my sister, or my parents."

"Then why aren't you standing out at the side of the road with your thumb to the sky?"

"The same reason you aren't," she says. "I have a conscience."

"Another useless characteristic."

"My sister is an idiot. She's one of the most awful people I've ever met. She's spoiled, she's stupid, and she's mean. But I know that, for some strange, bizarre reason, people like her. Hell, sometimes I even catch myself smiling over the rare jewel of something she's said or done that _wasn't_ entirely sickening. I don't love her, but other people do."

"You appreciate something about your sister. You _love_ her."

"No, I _don't_."

"You like to think you don't, because she sure as hell does a good job of acting like she doesn't love you." Isabelle looks at the ground; her teeth clamp down on her lower lip. "You're ashamed of caring about someone who would hardly notice if you disappeared from her life completely. You've sacrificed self-sufficiency and strength for this, and you've lost. You are a familial, social, emotional weakling, and I bet the knowledge of that hurts more than a little concussion or a fainting spell ever could. So you got the short straw in twin-dom; what excuse does it give you to put up a brave front and pretend you don't give a damn?"

For a moment, I think maybe she's going to burst into tears and admit I'm right. Instead, she glances up at me, looks me dead in the eye, and says, "Whatever excuse you have for being a jerk because you drew the short straw in leg-dom."

She looks like she's about to do a complete head rotation from the evil glare she's giving me, but we both look to the door when a voice yells, "She's in here!" Cuddy comes into the room and looks at Isabelle. "Where have you been? Your father's been looking everywhere for you!"

Mr. Donahue marches in and demands, "Why did you leave your sister and your mother alone? You know this is hard enough on them –"

"I was just following your lead. Like father, like daughter and all that jazz."

"Isabelle, your sister fainted again," Cuddy says, trying her very best to sound sympathetic.

"Did she get a good look at my father?"

"You know, I'm getting real sick of your lip," Mr. Donahue warns Isabelle, his pointer finger wagging menacingly.

She shoots me a look that purely reads, _I could use some reinforcements._

_Screw her_, I think. _She made fun of my leg._ "I'm sick of both your lips," I offer. Her father nods approvingly. "You should probably listen to your poor dad every now and then. Imagine how hard it is for _him_."

Isabelle, determined to remain catty at all costs, narrows her eyes into tiny slits of malice. "You're laying that crap on awfully thick, Dr. House."

Cuddy uneasily shifts her weight from one leg to the other and looks around nervously. "I wonder where Chase is with that report…"

As if on cue, the baby monitor begins to talk. "House!" Chase says. "Testing, one, two, one, two. House, are you there?"

Mr. Donahue's eyes nearly pop out of his head. "Still think that's a medical miracle?"

"I wasn't aware we had a PA system in this hospital," Cuddy says, glancing at the ceiling.

"That's no PA system," Mr. Donahue informs her.

"House, come in. I need you in Becca's room, ASAP."

"Where is that _coming_ from?" Cuddy rounds the desk, searching for the source of the sound. When she sees my other half, her mouth drops open. "Oh my God…"

"I don't know what that is, but it sure as hell isn't a –"

There _is_ a God; I know this because at that exact moment, my cell phone rings. "Dr. House," I all but gasp, sinking further into my chair with relief for the interruption.

"House, where are you? I've been screaming into that damned monitor for nearly five minutes, and –"

"I'm going to fire you after we solve this case," I warn him. "Wait there for me." I hang up and awkwardly push past Cuddy. This is the only time in the history of the world that I can remember myself looking at the ground instead of other, more interesting places when she's around. "Chase needs a little help," I say.

"He's not the only one," Isabelle mutters, glaring at…well, everybody in the room.

They all follow me, my own personal trio of gawking fanatics. "I don't need an entourage," I hint impatiently. "Cuddy, I'll explain later. Donahues…we need some time apart." I walk out of the office and head down the hall. This had better be good, that's all I can say…

* * *

Well, that's chapter seven. Crazy, huh? My job is over (for now), but yours has just begun! (Hint: LOOK AT THE LITTLE PURPLE BOX IN THE LEFT BOTTOM CORNER. CLICK ON THE PART THAT SAYS GO. THEN WRITE WHAT YOU THOUGHT.) Please? 

The Official House-of-Insanity News Bulletin:

1) SATs went quite well – all a result of your wonderful reviews that got me all pumped for the test, of course. Thanks, guys:)

2) Birthday also rocked – the reviews were the most awesome present I got…Well, except for a few other things…But they were definitely up there. :)

Anyhow, chapter eight will be up soon. I hope.


	8. The Breakthrough

(Squeals) Wow, you really like me! I can't believe it! You _really truly_ like me! (That, for those of you that didn't pick up on it, was my admittedly poor impression of Sally Field receiving her first academy award. Inside joke with my mom, ungodly long story, but it captures my sentiment about now perfectly…) But seriously, thank you for the reviews...all four of them. :) Come on, ya'all it's not _that_ hideous! I _love_ love, I tolerate hate, but _PLEASE_ don't make me suffer through silence!

NVM, I'm just spoiled, that's all. Ignore me.

Update on my disclaimer: Still don't own House. It's unfortunate (for me, at least), but what can you do?

Alright, everybody put your hands up for Mollisk, the awesome person who beta-ed this chapter! Thanks again for the splendid suggestions! Hearts and all that jazz.

And now, on to Chapter Eight!

* * *

Chapter Eight: 

I walk down the hall, doing my best to ignore the awed stares I'm receiving. Room 211 seems miles away, but I finally reach it. Chase is sitting on the bed, swinging his legs back and forth. Becca and her mother are nowhere to be found.

"Took you long enough," he comments dryly, hopping to his feet. "Becca fainted again."

"Yeah, so I've heard. Cuddy mentioned that to Isabelle when she found her."

"With you?"

"Where else?"

"The other half of the Donahue clan is in room 212. I figured we should sweep the room for environmental factors."

"Yes, and while we're at it, let's sweep your skull for a brain. What the hell were you thinking, yelling into the baby monitor like that?"

"I wanted to reach you!"

"Hmmm, if only Alexander Graham Bell had invented the telephone – oh, wait! He _did_. I guess it's your fault after all."

"Where is it now? The baby monitor, I mean."

I'm so surprised at his question that I almost tell him the truth – God forbid I do something asinine like that. Luckily, I catch myself just in time and instead sarcastically reply, "You know, Chase, I haven't the foggiest idea. It could be anywhere by now."

He sighs, frustrated, and grabs the speaker. "Come in, anyone. Come in –"

Exasperated, I reach into my pants and pray no one's walking by at just the right time to see me pull the monitor out. "You _moron_!" I bellow, holding it high in the air, too obvious for him to miss. "Does _this_ look familiar?"

Chase's eyes go through a strange and amusing series of widenings and narrowings as he tries to comprehend the long and difficult journey this baby monitor has been through. Finally, he settles on narrowing them and asks, "Why was the baby monitor…umm…riding below?"

"I set up headquarters in the bathroom after Cameron spoiled our fun, and Mr. Donahue came in. I had to get creative or risk losing the monitor." Not to mention my job, my reputation, my medical license. Neither parents nor hospitals take kindly to doctors spying on their patients, even if their reasons are as noble and justified as mine.

"Why didn't you just take it out when he left?"

"_I_ left. He wasn't about to. Then I ran into Isabelle, who promptly made herself comfortable on my couch and told me her life's story."

"What couch?" he asks. "There's no couch in your office."

"A figurative couch, like the ones psychologists are so famous for using," I say. "We then proceeded to fight out a long, intense battle of wits – I won, of course – then Mr. Donahue and Cuddy came to find Isabelle."

I pause, waiting for him to catch up. "When did I come in?" he asks hesitantly. My silence is enough to tell him. "Was it bad?"

"No, sir! I had a grand old time explaining to Cuddy why my Johnson was suddenly so verbal," I assure him. He licks his lips and stares at me guiltily, like a puppy caught ripping the good futon to shreds. "Now would be an excellent time to start kissing up to meif you expect to keep your job."

Chase looks as if he's about to protest, but instead mumbles, "Sorry, House."

I blink. "'Sorry?' That's it? Not even a bribery? Here's a hint: I love anything big, flashy, and sinfully expensive." When I see he isn't biting, I mentally roll my eyes for hiring someone with no sense of humor and continue. "Listen: as much as I'd like to right now, I _can't_ fire you. Firing you would mean giving Cuddy a reasonable explanation for it, and I can't do that without joining you in your trek through the want ads. Thus, we're stuck together. Keep your mouth shut, I'll keep mine open, and everything will go back to normal. And for God's sake, stay away from the baby monitor!"

"With all due respect, Dr. House –"

"I like that – 'all due respect.' Continue."

"Don't you think maybe the surveillance is a little too risky to continue?"

"Of course not. It's the only thing we've done so far that might actually get us somewhere."

"I'm just saying that maybe we should explore other methods of keeping track of Becca."

"Such as?"

"The old-school way: baby-sitting. One of us should be with her at all times; if we can't be, then we can get a nurse to sit with her. Never leave her alone, never give her the opportunity to do something stupid."

"Every time Becca opens her mouth, it's an opportunity for her to do something stupid."

"What do you think?"

I consider it only a second before replying, "I think it sucks Willy Wonka's biggest lollipops."

"House, the baby monitor is _illegal_! We can justify –"

"You can justify anything you want; the legalities only matter if you get caught. We need the Donahues to let their guard down, and they won't do that if one of us is sitting there watching them. We need to see every ounce of drama we can from this family. At this point, anything and everything could be causing Becca's heart attacks, something her family may be able to shed light on without even realizing it. If one of us is hanging on every word they say, there won't _be_ any words."

"So you're saying the only way to get them to talk is to pretend we're not listening?"

"See, _now_ you're understanding where I'm coming from. So what do you say?" I really only asked him as a formality; my team is _not_ a democracy.

Fortunately, he agrees. "If you say so," he concedes hesitantly.

"I suggest you go back to pretending you didn't know the baby monitor was in here. I'll do the same. That way, when Cuddy finds out and gives us the third degree, we can point fingers at each other and confuse her into forgetting the whole thing."

"Cameron will know, and don't think she won't say aything."

"That's why I told you to _distract_ her. Don't you ever listen to me?"

"I did my best!" he protests.

"Which one did you try?"

"All three," he replies. "She wasn't receptive to the supply closet suggestion _at all_ –"

"You're losing your touch," I observe, disappointed.

"– I left my didgeridoo at home –"

"You should keep it here in case of emergency."

"– And it turns out she's more of a cat person."

"Better luck next time," I say.

"I can't stand this case anymore. I say we take so much blood she shrivels up like a raisin, test it for every disease known to man, and get her the hell out of here."

"Chase, if I didn't have such a deep and profound conscience, we'd skip right to the third step and forget the Donahues ever existed. Sadly, my sense of doctoral duty will not allow me to do so."

"Well, that and the fact that it's illegal."

"Since when have rules ever stopped me from doing something?"

"You, never. Everyone else, all the time, and you need to go through us to get anything done." Chase chuckles humorlessly, more to himself than to me. "Becca's not the only drama queen in this hospital. Do you think teenage girlhood is contagious?"

_Drama._

"Chase, what was she doing when the fainting spell presented?"

"According to her mother, crying about that boy, Darin. He apparently hasn't called her since you brought to light the fact that I'm obscenely hotter than he is."

"What did they say they were doing when the most recent heart attack happened?"

"Becca was watching a horror movie."

"Which one?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Just tell me."

"I think it was 'Saw.'"

"What part was she at when it happened?"

"I don't know!"

"Why didn't you take it down in the medical history?"

"Because they didn't teach me to worry about the cinematic tastes of my patients in medical school!"

"Find out what part she was at. I want the specifics: how much blood and gore there was, how long she'd been watching it, the works. What about the first fainting spell?"

"Fighting with Isabelle. Something about a tube of whore red lip gloss and a lying, stealing bitch of a sister."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously what?"

"That's what the shade of lip gloss was called?"

He shrugs. "That's what they called it."

"And the first heart attack?"

Chase furrows his brow. "You were there, weren't you?"

Ah, yes. I reach into my collection of deep, dark memories and grope for that particular one. "Becca was in the middle of a very extensive crying jag. She was upset about the possibility that she might be pregnant." I smile involuntarily. "Excellent."

"May I ask why?"

"Is it only me, or do I see a pattern here?"

"It's only you at the moment."

"_Drama_. Becca is the queen, duchess, empress, and president of drama. Drama does what to girls?"

"Makes them break out."

"And what causes them to break out?" _Come on, Chase, I know you have it in you…_

"Stress?"

"That's the one! If the heart attacks have a specific trigger - like stress and drama - that'll significantly narrow the course of our investigation. We'll have a diagnosis in no time."

Chase grins. "That's fantastic! Good call, House."

"Wrong: _great_ call," I say. "We need more tests and more scans. Do an EKG and bring me the results, stat. I want to know what triggers these things. Meanwhile, do everything you can to piss that family off. I want Becca so tense she snaps like a rubber band."

"Yes, sir," Chase replies dutifully. "Hey, House, weren't you supposed to leave over an hour ago?"

"Gee, I wonder whose fault it is that I'm still here," I wonder aloud, shooting him an angry glance.

"Never mind," he says quickly, heading for the door. "I'll start that EKG. We can go over it first thing in the morning."

"Sounds good, but one last thing, Chase," I say before we step out the door. I don't want to put my question into words, but I just _have_ to ask him. "Did you really not notice the baby monitor when I came in?"

"Oh, I noticed, all right," he replies. "I thought you might appreciate my tact in not mentioning it."

"Well," I say, relieved, "you were right about that, at least."

* * *

I'm hoping to sneak out of the hospital without seeing Cuddy, but the woman is like my second shadow – ironically enough, especially when I don't want her around. She passes through the hallway, dressed for a tennis match, just as I am flipping out the lights to the Department of Diagnostic Medicine. "House," she cries, jogging up to me, "we need to talk." 

"And there is nothing I would love to do more than just that, but unfortunately _The OC_ starts soon. Mischa Barton waits for no man."

"Mischa Barton needs to learn to share," she says as we step into the elevator. "I get first dibs on you, especially when it involves work. What the _hell_ was going on earlier?"

"I learned a new trick."

"Yeah, some trick. You seem to forget every now and then, but I'm a doctor, and happen to know for a fact that penises –"

I burst into a fit of juvenile snickering, cover my mouth and point at her. "You said 'penis!'" I inform her in a sing-song voice.

"Stop acting like a twelve-year-old," she hisses, her face reddening as we step out of the elevator onto the first floor. "Anyway, I just happen to know that they don't just start talking out of the blue, and certainly not in Chase's voice."

"Stranger things have happened," I say, hoping this is true.

"All I want to know is what sort of electronic device you stuffed down your pants and why."

"That's an awfully personal question."

Without warning, Cuddy grabs my arm, her fingers nearly piercing through my jacket. This is where we men fail; no matter how much muscle we have, we will never hold up against the barbaric invention of the French manicure. "_Tell me._"

"Officer," I whine to the security guard we pass as we head out to the parking lot, "she's sexually harassing me."

"In your dreams," he says.

Cuddy hides a satisfied smile and continues. "All I want to know is how much I'm going to have to lie to the Donahues in order to smooth things over."

"Seriously?" She nods. "No write-up, no extra clinic hours?" More hesitantly, she repeats the gesture. "Promise you won't report me?"

It's hard to tell in the dusk's gray light, but I think she pales ever so slightly. "Is it really that bad?"

My walk comes to a slow and steady halt in front of a blue SUV. I study the assortment of litter on the ground in front of it, then hesitantly reply, "It was a baby monitor. One half is set up in Becca's room, the other stays on my desk." I pause. "At least, it's supposed to."

Her eyes flutter shut. "Of all the stupid things you've done, House, this has got to be one of the top five."

"I'm always trying to outdo myself."

"Well, this time you really –"

Suddenly, the SUV begins to move. Cuddy yelps, and I'm not sure whether I push her or she pulls me, but somehow we both end up safely out of harm's way, arms wound around each other awkwardly. The driver of the SUV is none other than Dr. Simpson, who probably would have given anything to have stepped on the gas a little harder and finish me off. "Watch where you're going, House!" he yells as he pulls out and speeds away. "Sorry, Dr. Cuddy!"

"This is the man you trust to operate on half-dead patients?" I ask, releasing her.

"Don't try to change the subject," she warns me as we continue to walk. "You put a baby monitor in Becca's room? Why do you need to do that?"

"To make sure she doesn't have any more parties."

"I got those kids in so much trouble between the police and their parents, she doesn't have any friends left to party _with_."

"I have a medical reason as well." I brief her on my drama-stress theory as we walk. "I believe this is a new factor we can use to rule out certain medical conditions," I conclude.

"How many, two or three out of the hundreds that could be causing this?" Cuddy stops at her car and begins to dig through her purse for her keys. "I don't know, House…"

I sigh. "What if I give my solemn promise to never walk around with the speaker in my pants again?"

To the untrained eye, the look on Cuddy's face is pure constipation, but it's laughter she's trying to hold back. "Alright, this is the story we're sticking to. The bulge in your pants was the unfortunate result of an allergic reaction you had during the clinical trial of a new pain medication. Your phone was set to vibrate when a call came in, but you shifted in your seat when Chase dialed, answered the call, and set it on speaker-phone. In other words, _all coincidences._ Make sure to get this straight with him; I'm assuming he's part of this shenanigan as well."

Sometimes – actually, most of the time – I just do not understand Cuddy. On the surface, she acts like such a goody-good, but there's a deviousness in her so surprising I can't help but admire it. When she acts this way, it is the only proof I have that I am not entirely alone in the world. "You're being awfully agreeable about this," I comment gratefully.

She unlocks her door and opens it. Instead of getting in, though, she looks at me and says, "House, you've done some things that boggle the minds of normal people. The way you think is something extraordinary. There are times when it feels like I'm blindly following you into trouble and I can only imagine how you're going to get out, but there are a few rare occasions when I can understand what you're thinking as lucidly as if my own mind conceived it." She stares at me and tilts her right shoulder ever so slightly to the sky; the right corner of her mouth mimics it. "I don't know what you're getting yourself into, but I've learned by now that you _do_. I trust you."

Awww, how sweet. I know it's crazy, but sometimes I feel the exact same way about her. "Good," I say. "Maybe Becca has a fighting chance, then."

"Maybe," she repeats, gazing at me with a look I have to classify as fond. Her mesmerization is gone almost as quickly as it appeared, and she asks me, "Where did you park? I thought you started using your leg to an advantage and taking the handi-capped spaces."

"I did," I reply. "But walking you to your car was the gentlemanly thing to do after Dr. Simpson's malicious attack."

"My hero," she says sarcastically, but a smile plays on her lips.

We exchange polite farewells, back to a dry, professional manner of conduct, and she drives off. I walk back to my own car, wary of each every vehicle I pass. With a life beside my own hanging in the balance, I can't risk being snuffed by any more would-be assassins tonight.

* * *

Alright, you guys. I am humbling myself. I am on my knees in front of this computer screen, hands clasped, crying out in hope. Please _please PLEASE_ leave me some reviews! Even if this story is a disgrace to fan-fiction everywhere. Maybe especially if this story is a disgrace to fan-fiction everywhere. P. L. E. A. S. E.

That's enough groveling for one chapter. But honestly, thank you for reading...even if you're going to torture me by not leaving a review:)


	9. Making Up

Hi, guys! You know what's coming, and in exactly what order, so let's just cut to the chase, shall we? 

1) Thank you for all the reviews; my whining, for all of its annoyingness, really did the job. :P I appreciate the feedback, as always!  
2) I don't own House.

Ah, and a slight diversion from the normal drivel before I let you read: Happy birthday to Hugh Laurie himself! Thanks for all the years you've devoted to our entertainment; they are greatly appreciated. Hope your birthday and the year to follow is the best yet!

Not that he's reading or anything. Just thought I'd mention that, in case. :)

* * *

Chapter Nine:

The next morning, my team and I are on entirely opposite sides of the work ethic spectrum. I'm the first one to the office, nine minutes early and ready to put Becca to the test.

Chase is the next to arrive.

"Hi, Chase," I say, sounding unusually pleasant. "Let's take a look at that EKG."

"What EKG?" he asks, giving me a blank look as he sets down a few files on the table.

"The one you did on Becca, of course."

"Oh…you wanted that done yesterday?"

I roll my eyes. _Unbelievable._ "Of course not! That might help us figure out what's wrong with her sooner, and God knows, we sure wouldn't want that. What were you waiting for, an engraved invitation?"

"I was already late getting home! Did you want me to hang around until midnight to do the damned thing?"

"I worked late, too – didn't stop me from doing _my_ job!"

"You were covering your ass on the baby monitor incident."

"Wrong: I was covering _your_ ass too. I got Cuddy to let us off the hook. In fact, I was so convincing, she even threw a good cover-up story into the deal. You should be on your knees right now worshipping me. A sacrifice would be nice, too." I spot Cameron walking down the hall and give her a wolfish grin as she steps in. "Something like that."

She lets out a low whistle. "Do I even want to know what you're talking about?"

"The god of Diagnostic Medicine is demanding sacrifices now," Chase says dryly.

Secretly flattered, I tell him to have the title mounted on my door by noon or risk being smited.

"Not a very forgiving god, is he?" he asks Cameron, amused.

"What are you smiling about?" I demand. The smirk disappears from his face instantly. "As I recall, _you_ have an EKG to do, and I'm assigning you my clinic hours for the rest of the week for being late."

Foreman arrives at last. "What's on the agenda today?" he asks after exchanging greetings with everyone.

"Chase, after nearly 24 hours of shameless procrastinating, is finally sucking it up and doing an EKG. Once we get the results on that, we'll go from there. Meanwhile…" I pause and glare at Chase. He hurriedly stands and leaves the room. "Meanwhile, I'm going to brief you guys on our latest theory." I explain to them about drama and stress and teenage girls. Cameron just stares into space, no doubt unimpressed; Foreman listens eagerly. The poor guy probably didn't even notice until college that such complicated creatures exist. "What do you think?" I ask expectantly.

"I think it's barbaric to stress someone into a heart attack," Cameron says. "Why can't we do what normal doctors do? Blood tests, EKGs, lumbar punctures."

"They're painful, they're expensive, they're –"

"A hell of a lot safer than forcing someone into a heart attack." Foreman stares at me disbelievingly. "You like metaphors, so I'll use one. This case is a puzzle, and there are two ways to solve it. One is shoving the pieces into spaces where they don't fit. You do that, and your picture won't be the one you were trying to get. The other is to place the pieces where they make sense. It'll take longer. It'll be difficult. But the picture turns out much better."

"I'll be sure to remember that when I retire and have nothing better to do than play with puzzles. As artful as that was, it's irrelevant. We're testing a theory, not blindly jumping into a premature diagnosis."

"When do we _not_ jump into a premature diagnosis?"

"When does it _not_ eventually work out?" I can see I've momentarily stumped them; time to start handing out orders. "Foreman, go talk to Becca. I want you to find out what stresses her out. Bring a lot of paper and few extra pens. Cameron, tell the family anything you can to put them on edge. Hopefully some of it rubs off on Becca."

"What should I say?"

"Anything," I say, waving my hand dismissively. "Tell them we think she has acute cardiopathical inflammation localized in the right ventricle."

"I've never heard of that," she says, knitting her brow.

"That's because it doesn't exist."

"Couldn't we just stick to the truth? I'm sure they'll be scared enough to find out that we don't know any more than they do."

"_Bor_-ing."

"Fine," Cameron mutters, standing up. "_Don't_ listen to me."

"I wasn't aware I needed your permission to do that. Guess I've been breaking the rules all along."

"Grow up," she mutters, stomping out.

Foreman and I lock eyes. "Oh, God. You're going to do that thing where you tell me you disagree with what I'm doing and take a stand, right?"

He chuckles humorlessly. "Something like that."

"Don't worry about it; they won't care what the hell we have to do to Princess Becca if it gets her well."

"Not everybody can be as laissez-faire about life as you can, House. There are other options for us to use, options that can save her life _and_ pacify the family."

"So _that's_ what you're worried about. You don't want to have to face Mama Bear and Papa Bear when Baby Bear makes a stink about the way we're treating her. Well, relax. It's not unethical to do a little bit of experimentation on the side of a diagnosis. Insensitive, maybe, but not unethical." When he just stares at me with sad, empty eyes, I sigh. "What's that thing you people always say? Oh, yeah: _I got cho back_."

Foreman rolls his eyes. "You're whiter than an albino caught in a blizzard."

"You're blacker than a burnt piece of toast against the night sky. Doesn't matter. Becca's parents will probably set aside the issue of race if you'd get out there and _treat their kid_ already."

"If they'll ignore it, why the hell can't you?"

"I'm come to find that it's the only way to get you out of my face," I admit. "See, if I hadn't done that, you'd still be lecturing me about how I treat our patients or going on about your puzzles or something."

"And what am I doing now that's so much better?"

"One thing I've noticed you're _not_ doing is what I told you to."

"You're distracting me!"

"So in addition to your insolence, you have ADD. Now all you have going for you is the ability to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide and a special talent for breaking into people's houses." I pause. "Heyyyyy…"

Foreman groans. "Can I at least wait until after the EKG? I hate it when I stage a break-in and then come back to find you've already cured the patient."

"I'll give you until noon."

"Thank God."

"We've known each other long enough; you may refer to me as 'Your Excellency' from now on." Judging from the upward rotation his eyeballs make as he walks out of the office, I don't believe he is as appreciative as he should be.

When he is gone, I eagerly contemplate the many futile but amusing activities with which I could fill the next few hours. I could go to the lab and change the labels on the chemicals, just for kicks. Or maybe I'll romance Cuddy; certainly after our deep and meaningful conversation last night, she'll be much more receptive than in the past. Perhaps I could trip people in the clinic with my cane. I wonder where Wilson is – he's always game for things like that. "I bet I can trip fifteen people before Cuddy notices." "Fifty bucks says you won't make it to ten."

It's worth a try.

But…

I don't have any extra Roosevelts lying around. My leg hurts. We've already done this bet (I won).

Oh, alright, the jig is up. I want to listen to the Donahues.

So sue me. All of my favorite soaps have already had their season finale. I'm drama-hungry. And I'm dying to see what sort of magnificent lie Cameron has concocted for the Donahues.

Giving in to my pathological need for amusement, I reach into my bottom drawer for the baby monitor. I twist the volume up expectantly…

Nothing happens.

_Differential diagnosis for a broken baby monitor_, I think, examining the contraption closely. I grimly conclude that the batteries are dead and, sadly, won't respond to CPR.

I search every nook and cranny of my desk for new batteries, a charger, anything to start the monitor again. My labor yields nothing, however, and I soon find myself wondering how to sneak out to a store without Cuddy noticing. _If I pull the fire alarm in Dermatology and then cut the power in the clinic, she'll be so distracted she'll never miss me_, I rationalize, tapping my cane rhythmically against the floor.

A hospital intern knocks on my door, interrupting my planning. "What do you want?" I ask.

"Dr. Cuddy asked me to give this to you," she says, setting a small box on my desk.

"I didn't know she was _that_ sick of waiting for me to pop the question," I comment, dismissing her as I reach for the package. I take the folded note on the top and read.

_House –  
__A gift for you as you practice your listening skills. I don't want to see you out of your office until you've found out what's wrong with her. Enjoy!  
__With love from the administrative offices,  
__Cuddy_

A slow smile spreads across my face. When she puts her mind to it, Cuddy can be almost as underhanded as I am. I open the box to find an eight-pack of double-A batteries (she's psychic, too!).

I set up the monitor and put my feet up on the desk. Might as well get comfortable; it's going to be a long day.

* * *

At ten of eleven, I start to get bored. _Really_ bored. Cameron told the Donahues the sad but inescapably dull truth, and their reaction came with the same vigor and not an ounce more. Isabelle, the only person in the clan with any morsel of excitement in her body, is at _school_, a pure waste of time when she could be helping us. Mr. Donahue went back to work, and even the missus finally excused herself to go home and catch some z's. 

All I have to say is that, after nearly two hours of listening, all I have heard Becca do is snore. I consider smuggling her friends over just for a change in pace, but I can't figure out how to get them past the guards.

I'm hungry. My leg hurts. I have to pee.

But Dr. Cuddy has spoken. I am not to leave my office.

Unable to bear it any longer, I reach for my cell phone and dial Cuddy. "I need a coffee, two sugars, two creams, all the junk food you can find, and a chamber pot, stat!" I bark.

"_That_ wasn't what I was hoping to hear," she mutters.

"I'm _dying_ in here!"

"I'll start planning the farewell party."

"You should know by now that it's not that easy to get rid of me. I'm good and pissed off, but I'm still here. An angry House is much harder to deal with than a dead one."

"Maybe so, but I can still take them both."

"However, the angry one is the only one that can save Becca Donahue. The dead one would be too busy trying to resurrect himself to bother with that. Which one do you want on staff?"

"The dead House, any day of the week."

I pause, only for a second, then realize I've lost. "Just get down here, okay?" I hang up, feeling my face scorching under the fire of embarrassment. Cuddy wants me dead! And here I thought we'd gone and formed a connection.

Ten minutes later, she arrives, carrying my coffee and, God bless her, an entire back of junk food, courtesy of the PPTH gift shop. "Your chamber pot is on order from eBay," she grumbles, unceremoniously dropping everything on my desk. "What have you learned?"

"Becca needs a respiratory therapist," I report. "I don't know if she and Isabelle share a room, but the sound that girl makes when she sleeps could wake the dead, let alone her sister."

"I meant anything pertinent to the investigation."

"Not a thing."

"You know, House, there are a million other things I could be doing right now, and every last one of them is more important than –"

"But none of them are as interesting." We stare at the baby monitor and take in the soothing sounds of Becca's enormous snores.

"Fascinating," she says, standing and walking to the door.

The monitor crackles, then a familiar voice comes over the speaker. "And you think _I'm_ ugly when I sleep? Close your mouth!"

"Cuddy!" I hiss, motioning for her to come sit back down. She does quickly. "Is that who I think it is?"

"What are _you_ doing here?" Becca asks.

"School got kind of boring, so I cut out a little early. I just can't seem toget enough of this place."

Cuddy grins. "It's Isabelle."

"Care to stick around?"

"Things are looking up in here, that's for sure."

* * *

"I'm bored!" Becca whines. "Play a game with me." 

"A game? You mean like Go Fish?"

"Like Truth or Dare."

Cuddy groans. "House, I have to go and break this up. Who knows what they'll end up doing?"

"Just give them a chance. Maybe it'll be an entirely innocent game," Wilson, who came in only moments before, insists. She shrugs and we continue to listen.

"You go first," Becca instructs. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth," Isabelle says patiently. Awww, what a lovely, accommodating sister.

"If you were a flower, which flower would you be and why?"

This time, we all groan; Isabelle just laughs. "Ask me something _good_, Becca."

"Like what?"

"I don't know…"

The girls begin to muse over the complexities of constructing good Truth or Dare questions. My holy medical trinity in the making walks in, the results of the EKG in Chase's possibly capable hands. "We have the –"

"Here's a good one," Isabelle says.

"Shh!" I say excitedly. "This is gonna be good."

"In the event that our doctors were immigrants and their green cards ran out, which one would you marry so they could stay in the States?"

"What does that even mean, Izzy?"

"Translated into _your_ primitive language: which of our doctors would you bang? I'm asking you, in the event that our doctors were from another country and the government made them go home, which one of them would you marry so they could stay here?"

"They make people do that?"

I can just see Isabelle rolling her eyes. "Sometimes," she says, sounding pained.

"Oh, that's easy," Becca says. "Dr. Chase, 'cause he's a hottie."

I move to switch off the monitor in disgust, but Chase stops me. "Leave it on," he says. "This is very interesting."

"Tough luck, Cameron," I murmur. "He's back on the younger women." She gives me a dirty look.

"Who would you pick?" Becca continues.

"House," she replies instantly, unashamed.

Chase and Foreman break into a fit of snickering; Cuddy rolls her eyes; Cameron just stares at the monitor in shock, and frankly, I'm doing the same. How does this always happen to me?

"Ewww," Becca says. "He's _old_."

"I'm not marrying him for _sex_, dummy," Isabelle says, but I hear the smile in her voice. "He's…I don't know, so self-sufficient and confident. He doesn't need anybody else to be happy." _This is not true_, I want to protest. _I need somebody. They don't need _me. "It's the whole idea that he's complete by himself – like if he ever found someone else, someone to match his character, they'd be invincible."

"Huh?"

Isabelle sighs; her sister will clearly never understand anything beyond physical attraction as being love. "Never mind," she says. "But in any case, Chase is a fairy."

We all, with the exception of Chase, snort. "I don't care. She's a fifteen-year-old girl, for God's sake; what does she know?" he grumbles, glaring at the monitor.

"He's hot!" Becca counters, horrified.

"He looks like Jesse McCartney."

"Who is also hot."

"They both belong in Neverland with Peter Pan, wearing tutus and comparing magic wands."

Becca squeals in mock horror. "Shut up, ho!" she cries.

Isabelle laughs and continues measuring the faults of her sister's doctors. "And Foreman is so…rigid."

"What's that mean?"

"And Cameron's a girl," Isabelle reminds her sister.

"I'll try anything once."

"Except celibacy," she mutters.

"Stop using all those big words!"

"Maybe it's a good thing they're all US residents," Isabelle concludes. "Want to watch t.v.?"

"Hell, yeah! Lifetime for Women!"

"No way! We're watching Spike. They're running a CSI marathon."

"I'm the sick one!"

"I'm the one skipping school to sit here and play games with you!"

"Rock-paper-scissors, you bitch." We hold our breaths, waiting for the results. "No fair! You cheated!"

"It's not my fault you always play scissors." I hear Gil Grissom's voice begin to murmur in the background. "Give me an hour. Then you can watch your dysfunctional girl movies." Their voices fade as they drift into silence, mesmerized by whatever gruesome scene has come on the screen.

Jimmy gives a low whistle. "No further questions, Your Honor," he says, twisting the volume down. "That was…"

"Sickening?" Cuddy suggests. "I thought so too." She paces the floor, lips pursed, then turns to me. "Dr. House –"

"No need to thank me; I knew the monitors were a brilliant idea."

"They're not helping you diagnose the patient at all! I'm not paying you to sit here and listen to them gossip about you and your team!"

"You're just jealous because neither of them said they wanted to bang _you_."

As soon as I say, I regret it. The look on Cuddy's face is beyond terrifying; I begin to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I have crossed the line.

"Becca?"

The tone that so furtively made its way into Isabelle's voice in that one little word draws our gaze and fixes it in stone. I turn the volumeback up and we listen, frozen, as Isabelle begins to shriek. "Becca!" Her voice grows distant from the monitor, but we can hear winding through the halls clear as day. "Someone help us! It's happening again!"

* * *

(Gasp) What will happen next? You just never know...

Two chapters to go! Hope you've been enjoying this as much as I have!

And now I'll set you free to review and move on with your lives. Thanks for reading!


	10. When It All Comes Down

Creative disclaimers are too hard to come up with, so I'll just admit that I don't own House and move on.

Here's the latest chapter for your enjoyment!

* * *

Chapter Ten: 

We saved Becca's life. Again.

And somehow, I don't think buying her a few more hours will do us any good unless we figure out what's wrong with her. We're stuck, like flies in tomato soup, possibly just as helpless as the Donahues are as they wait with Becca. It took longer to bring her back this time; we can only imagine what the loss of oxygen has done to her.

My team and I sit in a heavy silence, twiddling our thumbs, waiting for an answer to pop into our minds. None, however, is showing up, and we each count the minutes that pass, knowing that the higher the numbers get, the higher the risk of losing Becca gets.

At fifteen minutes, twenty-one seconds, Cameron speaks. "I give up."

"Not yet," I say.

"There's no answer to this one, House! No condition accounts for all of these symptoms; nothing explains why an active, healthy fifteen-year-old girl is having heart attacks! We lost this one. She's eventually going to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and have another attack. Then she's going to die. There's nothing we can do about it!"

"No!" I shout. "Our theory was working!"

"_Was_ working, House. You were listening to them; you know that Becca didn't have a care in the world when she had that last attack. Your primitive understanding of drama and stress and teenage girls doesn't explain anything. Just give up! We can't help her. I don't know about you guys, but I'm going to the clinic. I've been wasting my time here, spinning my wheels, looking for a condition that just doesn't exist."

"This is your job. I didn't hire you to take my clinic hours and answer my mail."

"I know; you were too busy thinking how great I'd look in your office," she says dryly.

_This is true_, I admit silently. "You're the one who's always saying that you're better than that. Prove it. Diagnose the patient no one else can. Or aren't you the great mind you claim to be?"

"Don't place the responsibility on me because _you're_ not jumping in with all the answers at the right moment. What happened to you? Why aren't _you_ trying harder?"

"_I'm_ already doing my best! Every one of you is taking one look at her and deciding it's impossible."

"We've run the tests and done the lab work. We don't even have any clues except what she came in with," Chase protests. "It's unsolvable."

"I like you guys, most of the time, but when it all comes down, you make some pretty crappy detectives," I mutter. I glance at each of them as I rattle off the things they're good at. "Making a good cup of coffee, or breaking into houses, or…or…" _What _does _Chase have a talent for?_ "Or selling out your boss to multi-millionaires is all well and good, but Becca isn't getting anything out of it. _What are we missing_?"

"Nothing!" Foreman explodes. "We've been over this case with a fine-toothed comb a hundred times, and there's nothing left to be seen, tested, or analyzed. We're done."

"Oh, she's all better now, is she? Good, I'll draw up the discharge papers, and you guys can arrange for the wheelchair. Meanwhile, Cuddy should probably hold a press conference about the latest medical phenomena: the patient that got better without even finding out why she was sick."

"You're making it sound like we don't give a damn about her! That's not fair!" Cameron says, pouting. "We _tried_."

"You didn't succeed. Try again."

"What else can we do?"

I look her straight in the eye. "Don't fail."

Cameron shakes her head, grabs her papers, and heads in the direction of the clinic. Foreman and Chase follow her silently. When the door shuts behind them, I sink into my chair and sigh. If all four of us couldn't figure this out, how am I possibly going to go it alone?

* * *

Thirty minutes later, I still haven't gotten any closer to a diagnosis. I've tried looking at the case from every possibly angle, but nothing I see makes any sense. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm crazy, if Becca's crazy, if this is all some sick joke or bad dream. (Except, I notice with dismay, it can't be a bad dream because I'm not waking up even as I repeatedly pinch myself.) Finally giving in to my frustration, I pull out my yo-yo and begin to warm up. 

Unfortunately, Isabelle walks by at that very moment and sees me lackadaisically playing with my toys. She stomps into my office and demands, "What are you _doing_?"

"Trying to remember how to walk the dog."

"Where is everybody else?"

"In the clinic, treating the walk-in patients."

"Are you running any tests?"

"There are no tests to be run."

She blinks at me disbelievingly. "What about my sister?"

_Lost cause,_ I think. "We're taking a breather."

Isabelle makes a strange noise, half-snort, half-sob. "Don't you think Becca would like to take a breather too? Well, she _can't_. She's lying on her bed, not even moving, hooked up to so many machines I can't even see her past the wires. I can't tell if my sister's actually still residing in that body or if it's just an empty shell. Every breath she takes could be her last, and what are you doing? Playing with a yo-yo!"

"Awww, how sweet. Did your parents teach you how to make that spiel sound almost genuine?"

"I didn't want this to happen to her!"

"You wanted her taken down a notch, and look! You got what you asked for."

"I never asked for _this_!"

"Then God must be stepping up his game, because this is what happened. We're doing our best."

"You're not doing _anything_!"

"That's because there's nothing left _to_ do." It startles me when I realize how much I sound like Cameron. Have _I_ given up too?

Isabelle blinks rapidly, dangerously close to crying. "So that's it, then? We're just going to let her lay there and die?"

"We're going to treat the symptoms until another clue comes along." Essentially the same thing, but it sounds better.

"And if it doesn't?"

I do my best to sound positive. "You'll be an only child pretty soon."

I watch as Isabelle sinks, totally uninvited, into a chair and begins to cry. Black eye make-up bleeds down her face. Realizing that she is transforming into a raccoon, Isabelle begins to swipe furiously at the sludge dribbling down her cheeks. Her hands are clammy, her nails blue. It's almost like…

Oh.

_Oh_.

_God_, I'm an idiot.

I can't believe the answer has been staring me in the face this whole time.

"Would you like a tissue?" I offer politely, doing my best not to smile.

Isabelle sniffs and stands to retrieve it. When she touches the tissue, I reach out and grab her wrist. Figuring I'm just being a pain in the ass, she sighs and tries to get away, but I'm just too strong. I slowly examine her hand – it's ice cold, like a dead person's – and ask, "Refresh me: have we taken _your_ medical history?"

"No," she says, staring at me strangely. "And there's no reason to. I can't even remember the last time I had a cold."

"Well, all that's about to change." I release her and stand. "I need your blood."

"What for?" she asks warily.

"You wanted me to run more tests, didn't you?"

"On my sister, not on _me_!" she protests. "_I'm_ not the sick one!"

"I wouldn't be too sure," I inform her coolly, just like a TV doctor, and that shuts her up.

Really, scaring her like that was only for my benefit. If this is what I think, Isabelle doesn't have a thing to worry about. Her sister, on the other hand, may be in for a rude awakening…

* * *

_It's brilliant. There's not a chance in hell that I could be wrong. I'm breaking down the walls of conventional diagnostics, taking a strike for a new breed of doctor, changing the very world we live in! Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. House has done it again!_

These are the thoughts running through my mind as I, with a shaking hand, dial Cameron and tell her to find Chase and Foreman. I instruct them to meet me in my office, stat, because I've solved the case. It's amazing, but she sounds almost bored as she agrees, as if she was expecting me to figure it out all along. (Either that, or she thinks it's another false alarm. Is _she_ going to be in for a nasty shock if that's the case.)

Four minutes later, my team is seated in my office, staring at me expectantly. I pace a little bit, as time is no longer of the essence, and watch as their anticipation builds. Chase wiggles uncomfortably in his seat, Foreman looks increasingly anxious, and Cameron even looks up from examining her nails in an ostensibly bored manner. When I can tell that I've finally captured their full attention, I launch into the speech I've been spinning in my head for the past few minutes.

"We are taught, from the moment we enter pre-school, that no matter how different we are on the outside, we are all the same inside. It's bullshit. Every body is unique, even the ones that look exactly the same. Down to the tiniest cell, you are a world away from the guy sitting next to you, your 3rd grade teacher, even your supposed identical twin sister."

Their minds catch on that one little word. "'Supposed?'" Cameron repeats. "You mean…"

"Ladies, gents…" I fix my gaze on the Aussie and watch him squirm. "Chase. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum are fraternal."

"That's impossible," Foreman sputters. "They look exactly alike!"

"If only it was that simple." I spin my cane, seeing the molecular magic play out in my mind. "We've been real asses. We _assumed_ that when the duo from hell's parents hooked up, there was one egg and one sperm that came to form the Isabelle and Becca we all know and love. What actually happened, though, was a double date going down in Mommy's fallopian tubes. Two eggs, two sperm, two kids."

"But the chances of them being fraternal and looking so much alike are practically nothing!" Cameron blurts.

"But it's happened before," Foreman reminds her. I almost thank him out loud for having my back, but catch myself just in time. Maybe I'll give him a secret raise.

Well, let's not get carried away.

"What made you think of that?" Chase asks wonderingly.

"Isabelle," I say, enjoying the moment, "has a mild case of Reynaud's. Becca doesn't. It's just as good as if their eyes were different colors."

"But Reynaud's –"

"Is caused by all kinds of different things," I interrupt. "In this case, it's genetic. Without any apparent difference between the girls and no need to make sure, there was no reason to even suspect that they were fraternal."

Foreman shakes his head disbelievingly. "That should have been the first thing we checked."

"Oh, but then it wouldn't have been as fun," Cameron mutters.

"Ah, a joke," I observe. "You haven't made one of those in a while."

"You're sure about this?" Chase asks doubtfully. "It's fantastic, but still a bit of a long shot."

"'Oh ye little of faith,'" I say. "'Don't be afraid; just believe.' Or, if you'd rather, go check the results of the blood I ran on them. And while you're at it, check the test I ran for a little condition called Long QT Syndrome."

* * *

I love it when I'm right. 

It's all I can do not to gloat as we go to inform the family of our findings. I put on my sober doctor face and deliver the news as Cameron, Chase, and Foreman back me up.

"Long QT Syndrome," Mrs. Donahue. "What is that?"

"It's a genetic condition in which the heart's electrical system is abnormal. This causes an arrhythmia, which in turn can cause anything from a simple fainting spell to death. It tends to present in the teenage years," I explain. "There can be triggers, like _stress_ –" I shoot a meaningful glance at Cameron, who is taking Becca's vitals – "but sometimes, it strikes without warning."

"What do we do about this thing?" Becca's father asks. "It sounds…serious."

"It is," I admit. "This case is a statistical miracle. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed a patient with this condition could have survived so long undiagnosed."

"How do we treat it?"

I rattle off the usual suspects: beta blockers medications, pacemakers, surgery. In truth, it may require a combination of all of these to keep Becca alive. But at least we know now.

"Why isn't she waking up?" Isabelle asks in a dead voice.

This is one question I can't answer from a memorized passage of text and, consequently, is the hardest to hear the answer to. "That last attack was the most severe," I say. "Without her heart pumping blood, her brain was being denied oxygen. It's possible that the loss was too much for her body to handle."

Isabelle looks at me with tearful, pleading eyes. "Are you saying she's going to die?"

I hate it when they ask me that. Families always sound so defeated when they pose the question, yet they inflate that caustic three-letter word with just enough hope to make it painful to answer, as if I hold the power to change the fate of a loved one.

I have a medical degree, more years of practice than I'd care to admit, and a natural talent for saving lives, but I am still only human. I like to play God, except when it turns out that even he can't answer prayers.

"I don't know," I admit.

We watch as Isabelle turns back to Becca. Her ghostly hand grips her sister's moisturized, polished, pink one so hard that they seem to fuse into one. I don't think she even realizes that she's started calling upon any god that happens to be listening to _please help her_.

If love like a sister's can't save a life, how can miracles or medicine?

I follow my team out of the room, knowing that we've done all we can.

* * *

The next (and last - can you say _finally_?) "chapter" should be posted soon. I plan on making it nice and short, though. I've tortured you enough. :) So it's just a tiny epilogue, when it all comes down. 

As always, reviews are _so_ appreciated.


	11. Epilogue: Lessons Learned

Yes, my friends, your eyes do not deceive you! The last installment of _Seeing Double_ is finally here! It's been great fun writing this whole thing, even if, at times, it was difficult, and I can't thank you enough for your reviews. Thank you, thank you, _thank you_! (I never said I wouldn't try.)

And, for old times sake, do you know who owns House? If you answered house-of-insanity, you are a buffoon, because I am not good enough to shine House's shoes.

But enough with the disclaiming. Onto the epilogue!

* * *

Epilogue:

_Two weeks later…_

"Is it just me, or am I beginning to sound like a broken record?" Cuddy asks me as she marches me to the clinic. "Because it seems to me that the only thing I say anymore is, 'Go to the clinic.'"

"That sounds about right," I say, pulling my jacket sleeve from her grasp. "Look, I have important doctor stuff to do. Find someone else to baby-sit the patients."

"Baby-sitting the patients _is_ important doctor stuff; it's what I pay you for," she says. "Get in there right now!"

"Both you and I know how this is going to play out," I remind her. "Eventually, out of the goodness of my heart, I'll relent and go to the clinic. But then, in a subconscious effort to gain revenge, I'll piss off a patient, who will then come running to you. You will then come to me and tell me to apologize, which I will not do, because I am always right. Thus, another person's day will be ruined, and it will be all your fault. Do yourself a favor and spare me the clinic. It's the only way."

"The only way to what, piss off the other doctors? Everybody wants to know why _you_ always get a break from the clinic when it's understaffed."

"They're just jealous because I'm your favorite."

"Play nice with the other doctors, and play nice with the patients, or I'll fire you."

"Thou shalt not lie. You wouldn't fire me for all the outfits in Sluts-R-Us. Love your blouse today, by the way. You know how I hate to use my imagination when it comes to your – "

"House!"

"…Chest," I finish politely.

Cuddy, having had enough of this foolishness, grabs my cane out of my hand and extends it in front of her, threatening to break it in two. "If you don't hobble your ass into the clinic right now, your cane is going to be kindling."

I watch intently as she lifts her leg to snap it in half. "Couldn't you just put _me_ over your knee instead?" I ask. Defeated, she drops the cane in front of me and stomps away. She does a double-take barely five feet away and turns to face me. I roll my eyes, readying myself for round two. "What is it, exactly, that is so important that you have to miss clinic duty _again_?"

"My patient is checking out today," I say, glancing at the elevator. "In fact, she should be coming out of the elevator right…about…" I stare at the floors as they light up. Three…two…one… "Now."

The door opens and Wilson steps out. Disappointed, I shrug at Cuddy.

"Managed to fight your way out of clinic duty again, I see," he observes dryly.

"Cuddy put up a hell of a fight, though," I say, glancing at her. "But in the end, I think she understood."

"The only thing I understand is that you're a maniac," she mutters.

The second elevator dings and we glance at it expectantly. The doors roll open to reveal the Donahues and a nurse whose name I can't even bother to recall. They wheel Becca out of the elevator and head toward the exit.

Isabelle sees me and nudges the nurse away from her sister's wheelchair. "I've got it," she says, eyeing me. Her parents walk past us, muttering their thanks as they fumble for their car keys and sunglasses. The twins, though, take a moment to pause in front of me.

"How is she?" I ask to fill the silence.

Isabelle looks at her sister, who bores a vacant gaze into the air in front of her. "As good as can be expected, I guess," she says, smiling sadly.

"It could have been a lot worse, you know," I remind her.

"Yeah, and it also could have been a lot better."

"Look on the bright side," I suggest. "You're the cool twin now."

Her expression twists into something trying to resemble amusement. "Yeah, brain damage doesn't make for much popularity," she replies wryly. "But I'm not going to use her. I'm going to be better to her than she was to me."

"Awww, how precious."

"I'm serious!" Isabelle insists. "I've learned a lot since she came here." She pauses for a moment, squeezes her sister's hand, then continues. "It amazes me how quickly people can turn against each other. When she woke up from her last attack and we found out what was wrong with her, I was sure that all of her friends were going to rush to the hospital and do anything they had to to see her. Not one of them even called us back to see how she was."

"Not even Darin?"

"_Especially_ not Darin," she says. "Then I told _my_ friends what had happened, and they took it entirely the wrong way. They were sympathetic and all, but not like I would have expected or wanted them to be. 'She had it coming, Isabelle,' they all said. 'She deserved it after being such an awful sister.' It hadn't even occurred to me to feel that way, because I was so caught up in worrying about her."

"I think I'm going to have to take a few hours to overcome all this emotion," I whisper to Cuddy. "Looks like I'm not going to make it to the clinic after all."

"Do what everybody else does: grab a tissue and deal with it," she hisses back, mistaking my sarcasm for sincerity. I'm amazed when I glance at her to see that _she_ is almost ready to cry.

"Thank you, Dr. House," Isabelle finishes, unaware that I was only half-listening. Revelations like hers are commonplace in hospitals; your average doctor will witness one for every patient they treat. We can be happy for them, we can congratulate them on their newfound insight, but you can only hear the same speech so many times before you wonder why this stuff isn't common knowledge.

"No need to thank me," I say.

"But –"

"No, _really_," she persists. "If we hadn't come here, if we hadn't met you, if you hadn't saved her life…I never would have learned to love my sister."

"You really think this little life lesson is going to stick with you?" I ask. "I see it all the time. Patients get caught up in the moment. They realize that someone they love is going to be okay after all, and for a while they're overcome with mushy, lovey-dovey feelings. Then I'll see them later – it may be weeks, or months, or even years, but I'll see them – and they've come down from the high."

"Caring about somebody isn't like being high," Isabelle says. "It's not a buzz, it's not temporary. If you do it right, it's there to stay."

"We'll see," I say. "You should go. Your parents are probably waiting for you."

Isabelle nods and begins to push Becca toward the door. "Just wait, Dr. House," she calls back. "I'll prove it."

"Yeah," I murmur, "and maybe cat shit will start smelling like daisies." But even as I say, I realize how right she is. If you do it right, unconditional love can work its way into your nature. _If_.

"Another success, Dr. House," Wilson says, breaking my train of thought. "Want to celebrate?"

"Not with _you_," I say, turning to Cuddy. "Does someone need a hug?"

Already back to that irritating business-as-usual demeanor of hers, she puts on her angry face and points to the clinic. "I need _you_ to –"

"Wilson, can you take over my clinic hours today?" I ask. "I think Dr. Cuddy needs to be comforted."

"Leave me alone with him, and I'll –" Cuddy fumes.

"You work for her, you live with me. Just remember that," I remind him.

Wilson shrugs. "Sorry, Cuddy," he says, taking off.

We watch as he retreats. "Why don't you step into my office?" I suggest. "We'll get you feeling better in no time."

"Fine," she seethes. "_Don't_ go to the clinic. See if I care."

"Well, I guess I _should_ make up some of my hours, but if you insist, I suppose there's nothing I can do," I say, already wondering what to do with myself. My next great medical mystery can't be far off, and I've got to make sure I'm rested and ready. "Thanks, boss."

"Anytime," she mutters, but I hear the smile in her voice.

* * *

(Theme music swells in the background) Voila! Another completed selection of house-of-insanity goodness. And now for a few closing remarks.

Here is my last official bid for reviews (for this story, anyway). If you've read and have anything you want to say, do it! Live a life with no regrets, because it would suck if one day you thought, "Gee, I really wish I had reviewed that story," and then got run over by a bus or something. So…review! Say anything you have on your mind, whether it have something to do with the style, or tense, or dialogue, or character development – I'll devour any praise or advice you have on anything!

I've come to the conclusion that I need a beta. Not so much for grammar, spelling, or punctuation, maybe, but I know that sometimes I tend to get out of character, or make weird transitions, or other commit other errors that aren't that easy to catch or fix. I have another story in mind (not a medical mystery, so none of that knowledge will be necessary), and I'd really love to get someone's thoughts on it before I release the chapters. I've started writing it already, but it'll probably be a month or two before I'll need opinions or post anything. If anyone would be willing to edit, please let me know!

I think that's it.

As always, thanks for reading! Keep it real. :) Until next time, house-of-insanity.


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